The Boudetase Affair
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: It's 1960, and THRUSH is a formidable force under the control of the mysterious "Baron of THRUSH." Napoleon Solo has been attempting to track down the man for two years, and Alexander Waverly had decided that what Napoleon needs most in this quest is a partner he can depend upon. Enter Illya Kuryakin. [A series of 6 oneshots about the first year of their partnership]
1. Act I: Prelude of Light

Notes: _the characters aren't mine, and the story is! I know that just about everyone in this fandom has done a "how they met" fic, but I wanted to try my own hand at it; this will be the first in a series of six fics chronicling the highlights of the first year of Napoleon and Illya's partnership_. _Huge thanks to Kelsey for plot help_!

* * *

 **Act I: Prelude of Light**

Everyone in Section II had heard of Napoleon Solo—how could they have not? He was almost a legend—the young, wide-eyed idealist who, in 1958, had successfully outwitted and ousted G. Emory Partridge from power and left him for dead in the jungle. Napoleon Solo had done the impossible, freeing an entire nation from Partridge. Ever since then, Napoleon had set his sights on bigger fish; THRUSH was proving themselves to be a formidable foe under the leadership of the man referred to as "the Baron of THRUSH." The man's identity was unknown, and U.N.C.L.E. agents worldwide were desperate to find his identity and neutralize him—and Napoleon Solo was no different.

But for Napoleon, it was becoming more and more of a personal quest, bordering on an obsession. His conquest of Partridge, unheard of and unexpected for a young agent like him, had spurred his confidence. He had spent the following two years attempting to track down the Baron. It was now February of 1960, and though Napoleon handled whatever unrelated missions that were assigned to him, his intense focus on the Baron had become almost as legendary as the success of the Partridge affair. Whispers referred to him as "the Don Quixote of Section II," and these whispers had long since reached the ears of Alexander Waverly, who had been determining what to do about it.

Napoleon Solo was a good man, he knew, and he had made progress in his search for the Baron. But what Napoleon needed was someone to keep him grounded while on his quest. Waverly had tried partnering up Napoleon before with others—and to no avail. The partnerships had not lasted; most of them couldn't keep up with Napoleon, and those who could ended up clashing with Napoleon's extremely outgoing personality. There were few left in Section II who would even consider attempting a full-time partnership, and Waverly knew that he would have to search for potential candidates from U.N.C.L.E's international sections.

Though a few agents caught Waverly's attention, there was one who, in particular, had stood out—a young Russian, having served in the Soviet Navy prior to joining U.N.C.L.E., who had broken the records set by Napoleon in Survival School. If there was a man capable of keeping up with Napoleon Solo, it was this man—Illya Kuryakin. There was, however, the concern about a personality clash; the Russian was described as quiet and introverted—just the opposite of the dynamic young American. And yet, the file seemed to suggest that Illya had no trouble working with a variety of agents; any partnerships he'd had were strained by the sole fact that he was an admitted Communist.

Waverly considered this for several minutes. Illya Kuryakin sounded like a very professional agent—just as Napoleon Solo was. That would not be an issue, he decided; the only issue would be whether or not they'd manage to work together in the way he was hoping they would—that they could keep each other on task, and protect each other out in the field. He would have to hope that Napoleon's fiery personality would mesh with Illya's cooler one.

One phone call to Harry Beldon later, Waverly pressed a button on his intercom.

"Miss Rogers?" he asked the secretary. "Can you please send Mr. Solo in here?"

Napoleon soon entered with a file full of case notes.

"Mr. Waverly, Sir?" he asked. "I'd like to give you an updated progress report on the Baron affair—"

"Not just yet, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, glancing at Illya's file on the table. "I've called you here to discuss another matter."

"Ah," Napoleon said, quickly realizing where this was going. "Sir, if this is about assigning me another partner, I truly feel as though I've made more progress these past two years during the occasions where I was working alone."

"I understand your frustrations, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, with a nod. "And I'm not concerned about the rate of progress; on the contrary, I believe you've made great progress since the Partridge affair. I have confidence that if there is someone here in U.N.C.L.E. that can find the Baron of THRUSH, it will be you, but I do think that having a partner to aid you would not go amiss."

"Well, Sir, if it is what you wish, I will certainly give another partner a chance," Napoleon conceded.

Waverly nodded; he had expected that resigned answer. He now rotated the tabletop so that Illya's file was in front of Napoleon. "I had made a phone call to U.N.C.L.E. Northeast to confirm our new transferee; he shall be your partner."

"You're sending someone from Northeast? Sir?" Napoleon asked, puzzled.

"I decided that for a case as big as the Baron, the chances of success would be more likely if you were partnered up with someone who had a record that could match yours," Waverly explained, calmly. "This young fellow—Mr. Kuryakin—seemed like the best match for you."

"Kuryakin," Napoleon repeated, opening the file. "That sounds…" He trailed off, arching an eyebrow as he saw the file—and the photograph of the young Soviet agent affixed to it.

"Sounds Russian? Yes, Mr. Solo, he is a Communist, formerly of the Soviet Navy. But I also have confidence in saying that I know you well enough to know that it shall not be an issue. Isn't that so?" He paused, noticing that Napoleon was absorbed in reading the file. "Mr. Solo? Mr. Solo!"

"Hmm?" Napoleon asked, suddenly looking up. "Ah, yes, Sir. Not an issue; I know U.N.C.L.E. employs agents from all over the world…" He glanced back at the file. "…He broke my Survival School records?"

"I trust that shall not be a point of contention, either?"

"Not at all, Sir; I'm just surprised…" Napoleon said. "When does he arrive?"

"According to Harry Beldon, he'll be here within the week," Waverly said. "I'll let you know his flight details as soon as I'm aware of them. As you're going to be working together, I'd like you to pick Mr. Kuryakin up at the airport and bring him up to date on the details of the Baron affair; you will both report to me immediately afterwards to decide as to whether or not this partnership will go forward. In the meantime, Mr. Solo, I'd like you to take that file and study it—get to know Mr. Kuryakin before he gets here."

"Understood, Sir," Napoleon said.

He took his leave of Waverly and took the file back with him to his desk. He had some trepidation about working with a partner again after so many had failed. Why should this young Russian be any different than all the others?

He sighed, propping his chin up on his hand as he stared at the file, trying to learn what he could. He would expect nothing, he decided. Perhaps this Russian would end up surprising him.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin wasn't surprised when Beldon told him that he was going to be teaming up with a new partner again. What did surprise the Russian was the news that with this new partner came a transfer to New York.

"I'm not too pleased with the idea of losing you," Beldon said, as he puffed on a cigar. "But I owe Mr. Waverly a favor, and it looks as though you are going to be the one involved in this… payment of interest due."

Illya bit back the question on his tongue—would the New York branch of U.N.C.L.E. accept a Soviet agent among their ranks? This Mr. Waverly seemed to think nothing of it, but what of the other agents, including his potential partner?

Instead, the Russian asked, "And the agent I am to be partnered with?"

"Ah," Beldon said. "I don't suppose you've heard of Napoleon Solo?"

Illya thought for a moment.

" _Da_ , I think it was his records I broke at Survival School," he said. "And I seem to remember something mentioned two years ago—some great coup."

"His ousting of G. Emory Partridge, yes," Beldon said, handing Illya a file.

"He doesn't sound like an agent who needs my help…" Illya began, but he paused as he opened his file, seeing the photograph on file. His eyes widened in surprise; he had been expecting someone older, more seasoned. The man in the photograph couldn't have been more than a couple years older than him.

"According to Mr. Waverly, Mr. Solo here has been in pursuit of the Baron of THRUSH for the past two years."

"The Baron?" Illya asked, looking up at Beldon. "Nobody even knows who the Baron is!" He paused as the realization struck him. "Mr. Waverly wants _me_ to help Mr. Solo find the Baron? But that is impossible! It cannot be done; the man's identity is one of THRUSH's best-kept secrets!"

"Indeed, it looks as though the young fellow has bitten off more than he can chew," Beldon agreed. "And by my choice, I wouldn't give up my best man on some impossible task. Nevertheless, you are to fly to New York to meet him and discuss the case. Mr. Waverly has assured me that once you have spoken to Mr. Solo, it will be your decision as to whether or not you wish the transfer to be revoked; he will not force you to go on a fool's errand, if you believe it as such. And, clearly, it is." He puffed on his cigar a few more times. "How long will it take you to gather your essential worldly possessions? I promised Mr. Waverly that you would be in New York before the week was over."

"Not long at all," Illya said. He lived very modestly and owned very little; all of his possessions would fit in one small suitcase. And there were no ties of any kind keeping him in Europe; he had no family, and only casual acquaintances. Illya knew how to adjust, and New York would be just another instance to demonstrate his adaptability, assuming he decided to go along with this endeavor.

* * *

Illya had decided to reserve judgment before deciding whether or not Napoleon's pursuit of the Baron was a fool's errand as Beldon suggested. Indeed, even if it wasn't, there was still the matter of whether or not a partnership between them would be feasible at all; the information from the file had given Illya a picture of a highly successful agent, but an agent not unlike Icarus, flying dangerously close the sun after being spurred to greater heights from his past successes. Illya was beginning to suspect that, rather than his main goal being to help capture the Baron, Waverly's intent was to have Illya prevent Napoleon's wax wings from melting. Illya certainly believed that to be an attainable goal—assuming, of course, that Napoleon paid him any heed.

Illya sighed to himself as he collected his luggage at the terminal once his flight had landed in New York. It was as he turned to the door that he saw him standing there—the man from the file, who appeared to have been waiting for him.

Napoleon seemed to have spotted Illya at the same moment Illya had spotted him. They stood, awkwardly, for a moment, staring at each other, until Napoleon decided to break the tension by walking over to him.

"Illya Kuryakin?"

"Yes," the Russian responded, with a nod. "You must be Mr. Solo."

"Please—call me Napoleon," he said, extending a hand.

Illya hesitated for just a moment, but accepted the American's handshake; Napoleon's grip was strong, but warm—and open and friendly; though Illya had heard of the Americans' general openness, it nevertheless surprised Illya to see that directed at himself, being a Soviet and assigned to be a partner to a man who didn't seem to want a partner.

Nevertheless, Napoleon was putting on a smile for him, to be cordial.

"I'm guessing you had only that cardboard food on the flight," he said. "I know this great place in midtown Manhattan—the Casablanca Club. We can grab lunch there, and then I'll take you to our headquarters to discuss the case I'm working on."

" _Da_ , I heard about it," Illya said. "The Baron?"

Napoleon placed a finger to his lips and indicated the exit. Illya nodded and followed him to the parking lot. He placed his suitcase in the trunk of Napoleon's car and sat quietly in the front passenger seat as they drove to the club.

"…You can talk now," Napoleon said, seeing that Illya was still very quiet. "I didn't want us being overheard in the terminal in case there was anyone from THRUSH around."

"You are quite cautious," Illya observed.

"Well, it's the only way to ensure that I get to the Baron before he realizes how close I am," Napoleon said.

"And how close are you?" Illya asked.

"Closer than he thinks," Napoleon said, with a knowing smirk. "I'll show you when we get to Headquarters."

"You seem confident," Illya said.

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well… I heard that you'd been trying to follow this case for two years, and that your efforts hadn't borne much fruit," the Russian said, frankly.

"Oh, I know all about the stories going around about me—the Don Quixote of Section II. They don't know the information I've got."

"Why do you not tell them?" Illya asked. "Are you that unconcerned over what the others think of you?"

"Well, I'm not crazy about it," Napoleon admitted. "But I don't mind the grapevine making me look bad if it means that the Baron will lower his guard."

Illya blinked.

"You are diabolical," he said, in admiration.

Napoleon just grinned, pleased, but Illya went red.

"Forgive me; it is not my place to say such a thing."

"Don't worry about it."

"No; you are a senior agent to me."

"Oh, sure, by two years if you want to get technical about it… Look, Illya-"

The Russian blinked, not used to being addressed so informally.

"I'm not going to stop you from saying your mind," Napoleon continued. "If we are going to be partners, I'd rather you be frank." He smirked. "And besides, I took that as a compliment."

But Illya had decided to revert back to the safety of silence. He'd take a look at the information Napoleon had on the Baron before making his final decision on whether or not to proceed with the partnership.

* * *

Lunch was spectacular; it had been a long time since Illya had indulged in taking part of large meal. He had certainly surprised Napoleon with how much he could eat, and though Illya had offered to pay for his half of the check, Napoleon insisted on paying for the both of them, as Illya was the guest here in New York.

From there, they went to Del Floria's tailor shop; Napoleon introduced Illya to the proprietor before the man let them into U.N.C.L.E. HQ, and Napoleon led the way to his office.

"You're the first person to see this latest bit of information I determined about the Baron," Napoleon said, as he took the file from his desk drawer and handed it to Illya. "I meant to show Mr. Waverly—I've been showing him all my progress since the last two years. But your arrival came up before we could discuss this."

"My apologies," Illya said, and he opened the file, glancing at the photograph of a man affixed to the front of the file with a paperclip.

"Who is this?"

" _That_ is Silas Moran—international gambler," Napoleon said. "He travels the world, visiting casinos and building his wealth even further."

Illya caught the pride in the American's voice, and it suddenly dawned on the Russian why this man's photograph would be affixed to the Baron casefile.

"He's not…?" Illya began.

Napoleon gave Illya a knowing smile.

"Silas Moran is the Baron."

Illya stared at him.

"His identity is known? How can you be sure?" the Russian asked. "You have proof?"

"I have multiple instances of evidence that points to this being the logical conclusion," Napoleon said, with a nod. "I've had my ear to the ground these past couple of years in regards to the location as to all the major THRUSH meetings…" He took the file from Illya and paged through it, withdrawing a plastic transparency upon which he had drawn a map of the world, and had drawn the points at which the meetings had taken place, along with the date of the meeting. He then took a second transparency from the file and held it up for Illya to see. "This one catalogues the locations of Silas Moran's gambling vacations, and the dates he was spotted at local casinos. Now, observe…"

He placed one transparency on top of the other, revealing that the points and dates of the THRUSH meetings coincided with Moran's travels.

"…I admit that it is an intriguing correlation," Illya said. "But it could be a coincidence."

"I'd thought of that," Napoleon admitted. "So I did some more poking around. This date here…" He pointed to the date beside a point marking Athens, Greece. "Does this ring a bell?"

Illya bit his lip for a moment, trying to remember the date.

"Last October? _Da_ , I seem to recall…" His eyes widened. "Of course! That was when THRUSH decided to act brave and they broadcasted their demands to us; they made the broadcast from the ruins of an ancient temple…"

"The Parthenon," Napoleon said, with a nod. "Silas Moran had checked into an Athens hotel around the same time—but under an assumed name, as I later found out."

He showed Illya a photograph he had taken of a hotel ledger.

"Sebastian Boudetase?" Illya asked.

"How's your conversational Greek?"

"Boudetase… Boudetase…" Illya muttered. "Greek for 'little bird,' is it not?"

"A little bird… like a thrush," Napoleon agreed. "And as for Sebastian… Well, you know of THRUSH's origins, of course?"

"Of course. It was founded by Colonel Sebastian Moran in 1891…" Illya trailed off. "Silas Moran… is he—?"

"The only surviving relative of the colonel?" Napoleon finished. "I did my research, and the answer is 'yes.' Silas Moran has tried to publically distance himself from his family history, but the apple still hasn't fallen far from the tree. And knowing that THRUSH's October meeting was going to be broadcasted, he came up with this alias to attempt to obscure the fact that he was in Athens the same time as THRUSH's public meeting was."

Illya exhaled. Initially, he had thought that Napoleon had been charging through this blindly, with nothing more than fire in his soul. But it was clear now that he executing this plan of his with a clinical coolness not unlike what the Russian would have used.

"It certainly sounds less and less like a coincidence," he admitted. "But you need definite proof before going after Moran with such accusations."

"Obtaining definite proof was my next step before Mr. Waverly brought up the need for a partner. I have it on reliable authority that Silas Moran is headed for Rio at the end of the month to attend Carnival; I had every intention of following him there to tail his actions." Napoleon paused. "I know Mr. Waverly has been following my progress on this case and is pleased by it. He didn't assign me a partner because he thought I can't progress without one. He just thinks I need someone to watch my back."

"I was beginning to get that idea myself," Illya said. "I assume you have no desire for a watcher any more than I have a desire to watch over another."

"No, I don't," Napoleon admitted. "I think I've done just fine on my own." He paused again. "On the other hand… Perhaps an extra person working on this endeavor might speed things up."

"Perhaps it might," Illya agreed. " _Da_ ; I will do my best to aid in the capture of the Baron. I shall accompany you to Rio; in the meantime, I had best find a motel to stay in while I'm here in New York—"

"Motel?" Napoleon asked. "Oh, no; don't go settling for that. My landlady has a few pre-furnished apartments vacant in the building where I live, and she's willing to lease on a month by month basis. You can't beat her rent rates."

"That would be preferable; perhaps I can look at some of them later today," Illya said, with a grateful nod. "Thank you, Mr. Solo—ah, Napoleon."

"Glad to have you aboard, Illya," he said, surprisingly sincere. "Now let's go tell Mr. Waverly that we've decided to collaborate on this after all."

Illya nodded and followed Napoleon to Waverly's office. Neither of them had any idea what the future was going to hold, but there was a promise of light, with today as a prelude.


	2. Act II: Minuet of Forest

**Act II: Minuet of Forest**

The two weeks following the initial meeting between Napoleon and Illya were met with preparations for their first mission as partners in Rio—a simple reconnaissance mission to pick up information on Moran. Illya was still getting used to New York, and he found reactions to him around U.N.C.L.E. to be mostly positive. True, there were a few people who ignored him completely, a few people who stared with suspicion in their eyes, and a few who would whisper to each other as he walked passed, but, for the most part, the agents of the New York branch welcomed Illya as one of their own, greeting him warmly and advising him where to go for the best food, drinks, and coffee. And there were some who seemed to be concerned with the fact that he was partnering up with Napoleon. The rumor mill already had a series of field days with Napoleon, as Illya was already aware of. The Russian found himself being greeted by some agents advising him not to take it personally if Napoleon ended up going after the glory on his own.

"He's so obsessed with this Baron thing, you know?" an agent said. "I heard it that his ex—some lady named Clara—up and left him because he wouldn't stop thinking about going after the Baron. Said she didn't want to be playing second fiddle to his work. So, even if you do help him with this Baron thing, it's likely he's going to push you off to the side. You'd better be prepared for that. Solo's a good guy—no doubt about that. But working with a partner just isn't his thing. He won't stand for anyone getting in his way—especially not a partner. Last thing he needs is a liability. …Not that you will be, of course. Just don't take it personally if he just… ignores you. Or if there's tension."

Illya didn't bother to tell the agent that he was mistaken. In the past two weeks, there had been surprisingly little tension between himself and Napoleon—something that the both of them had been pleasantly surprised to see, given their different personalities and backgrounds. Napoleon had gotten Illya set up with the apartment next door to his, instructing him not to hesitate to ask if he needed help with anything. For his part, Illya spent long hours during their work day going over all the details and evidence that Napoleon had picked up over the last two years, and any thoughts and feedback that he had were most welcomed by the American, who didn't seem annoyed at all.

It had quickly become clear to Illya how Napoleon had successfully gotten the better of Emory Partridge: dedication, tenacity, and fortitude—with a little cleverness thrown in. And yet, contrary to the glory-seeking portrait that the rumor mill had painted, Napoleon never bragged about the feat; in fact, he had never mentioned Partridge at all. One thing that did seem to be true, however, was how focused on the Baron case Napoleon seemed to be at all times; even away from work, during a shared meal or coffee, Napoleon was silently calculating in the back of his mind, making plans for Rio. And Illya hoped that he wouldn't end up being underfoot.

Their arrival in Rio was quiet and without fanfare, as they had hoped; it didn't take long for them to blend in with the crowd of tourists there for Carnival.

"This place is…" Illya began, but trailed off, unable to describe the spectacle.

"Bigger and louder than you thought?" Napoleon asked.

"… _Da_ ," Illya replied, trying to make himself heard. "How are we to find Moran in all of this?"

"He'll be in the casinos first," Napoleon reminded him. "We'll need to pass as tourists if we hope to get close to him. Ah, _that_ should help… Just have a bit now and then and you'll blend right in…"

Illya paused as Napoleon stopped to talk to a vendor, and soon walked over to Illya with two small bottles.

"Drinks?" Illya asked.

"Yes; it's cachaça–the local liquor. Should be about as strong as vodka."

"I shall be the judge of that," Illya said.

"I'm sure you will. Now, remember—once we reach Moran, we have to get these special 1000 cruzerio bills into his pocket—or, at least, the pocket of one of his flunkies," Napoleon said, holding up a roll of Brazilian currency. "Believe it or not, there's a small device in this roll of money that serves as both a bug and a homing device. With it, we can find out where he goes and who he meets."

"And we shall know if anyone from THRUSH speaks with him," Illya finished. "It is a good plan."

"Glad you think so. Now let's just hope that it works."

* * *

It took a bit of searching until the finally found the casino where Moran had been spending the evening.

"Alright," Napoleon said. "We've got to figure out a way to plant this roll of money on him."

Illya glanced from the roll of bills in Napoleon's hand to the bottle of cachaça in his own hand. The pieces began to come together.

"I know how," he declared.

To Napoleon's surprise, the Russian took a long drink of the cachaça and then poured some of it on his face and down the front of his shirt. He then took the roll of bills from Napoleon and headed towards Moran, slipping a pair of tinted glasses on and borrowing a sunhat from a passerby.

Napoleon watched with interest as Illya bumped into Moran, dropping the roll of bills as he did so.

"Oh, I say!" Illya slurred, speaking in a received pronunciation accent that Napoleon had not expected to hear from him. "So sorry about that! I'm a bit out of sorts tonight… I've had a rather fantastic night here, and I just…" He trailed off, staring at his empty hand as though he was noticing it for the first time. "Extraordinary thing—I could have sworn I had some of my winnings in my hand just now…"

Illya began to look for the fallen money. Moran, amused and opportunistic, gently kicked the roll of fallen money over to one of his cronies, who picked it up while Illya was busy looking elsewhere.

"Easy come, easy go, Old Fellow," Moran said, helping Illya up. "You sound as though you've had a good time regardless."

"Oh, oh I have," Illya said, leaning in close. "I don't think I've ever gotten more out of an evening."

"Then go and have yourself another drink. The night is young. You can earn more money before it's over."

"And impress someone, as well," Illya said, tapping his nose knowingly.

He stumbled off, glancing behind him slightly to see the crony hand over the roll of bills to Moran, who pocketed it.

He suppressed a grin and headed back to Napoleon, who was also trying to hide a grin behind his fist.

"Where did you learn that accent?" he asked.

"I studied in Cambridge," Illya replied. His mouth twitched to a smile. "I take it you approve of my methods."

"Approve? You bet. …And are we sure that _I'm_ the diabolical one here?"

" _Da_ ; I am certain the idea would have crossed you mind soon enough," Illya said, sincere in his assessment.

"Well, we can argue about that later; for now, we need to head back to the hotel and see what we can pick up on that transmitter."

Illya was certainly relieved to hear that they were getting away from the loud Carnival scene; he had certainly seen enough of it to last him a lifetime. Napoleon, under normal circumstances, wouldn't have minded enjoying the celebrations for a while longer, but his zeal to prove that Moran was the Baron was enough to push that to the background.

It was shaping to be a long night regardless, and after ensuring that room service would provide them with enough food to last them until morning, Napoleon and Illya sat at the desk of the room with all of their tracking equipment surrounding them; between them, they shared a pair of headphones tapped into the tape recorder they were using to record what the bug was picking up.

Moran stayed at the casino for hours without much interaction from anyone other than his entourage. Illya suppressed a yawn as Napoleon drank from a mug of coffee.

"You know, you probably could turn in," the American offered. "I'd wake you if anything happened."

"I shall be fine," Illya assured him. "I must admit, I am eager to be awake in the event that something does happen."

Napoleon smiled and offered him the mug of coffee.

"At least have a bit of caffeine to keep you awake."

" _Spacibo_ ," Illya mumbled, deciding to take him up on it. He took a drink from the mug and flinched slightly at how sweet it was.

"Something wrong?" Napoleon asked.

"Most people add sugar to the coffee; you are the first person I have met who adds coffee to the sugar," Illya said, without thinking. He regretted his words almost instantly, feeling he had, once again, overstepped his bounds in front of a senior agent.

Mercifully, Napoleon chuckled.

"I can get you another cup of coffee if you'd like," he offered. "One with less sugar."

"No, no; it is fine," Illya insisted, and to prove his point, he took another sip of the coffee, this time keeping a straight face.

"Illya, it's really no trouble…" Napoleon began, but he trailed off as the tracker showed Moran suddenly on the move—at a high rate of speed. "Now where is he off to in such a hurry?"

He held up one of the headphone output points to his ear, allowing Illya to hold up the other one to his. The coffee was quickly forgotten as they heard Moran speak.

"You are certain that the charter plane is ready?"

"Yes; it has more than the adequate fuel for the three hours," a crony said. "As well as the return trip."

"Good; I wish to be back in Rio by morning so that my absence is not known," Moran replied. "Why THRUSH needs me to approve of the plan details in person is beyond me; I could have approved it by phone."

Napoleon stared at the recording equipment in excitement, a look of triumph in his eyes. He had found his proof; their mission was accomplished. He cast a glance at Illya, who smiled back in reply; the Russian was genuinely happy for him.

"They were concerned that U.N.C.L.E. would have tapped the phones at all the hotels in Rio," another crony said. "If they were to find out the details of the plan to use the new paralytic gas, they would do anything to stop it. And we must know the exact time our boys intend to paralyze Carnival so that we can avoid the fumes and aid with the heist."

The smile was wiped from Napoleon's face in an instant; Illya had quickly sobered as well, taking a long drink from the coffee—that one sentence had ensured that it was going to be a long night indeed.

Moran let out a grunt.

"Very well. At least now U.N.C.L.E. will take us seriously. And not just U.N.C.L.E.; perhaps now we can convince the Soviets to hand over their launch codes to THRUSH."

Illya choked on the coffee. Napoleon slapped him on the back a few times, though he still listened in; Moran had stopped talking about the plan, however, and was now discussing about his casino winnings.

Napoleon let the recorder continue to record the conversation as he turned to Illya.

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think we are in great danger," Illya said, his face pale. "THRUSH wants our launch codes, and they want to use this paralytic gas as leverage—if they seize control of our missiles, it could spell disaster for the entire world!"

"How easy or difficult would it be to get control?" Napoleon asked.

"I was in the navy long enough to know that THRUSH has been seeking the launch codes for a long time. …You will forgive me, of course, but I cannot explain to you in detail—"

"Of course," Napoleon said. "It seems to me that THRUSH wants to use Rio as a demonstration to convince your former comrades in arms to hand over those launch codes. They set off the missiles and start World War Three."

Illya shook his head. If war broke out, he knew he'd be recalled back to the Soviet Navy. He preferred working for U.N.C.L.E.—fighting to preserve peace instead of fighting to triumph in war. And he would undoubtedly be forced to the side opposite the one that his newfound partner would be on.

"Napoleon, we must find out where they are going—where they keep that paralytic gas!"

"Mr. Waverly sent us down here on a reconnaissance mission," Napoleon reminded him. "Are you suggesting we take the liberty to follow THRUSH and partake in sabotage?"

"…Yes," Illya said, after a moment's hesitation. "Yes, I am. I do not want war, Napoleon. I understand that you are the senior agent, and if you feel that I am overstepping my bounds…" He trailed off, noticing the look of admiration on Napoleon's face.

"Illya," the American said, giving him a quick pat on the shoulder. "It's an honor to be partnered with you. Let's go stop them."

* * *

It had taken them some time to gather their equipment and find transportation to the airfield that Moran had gone to. His plane seemed to have taken off while they were on the way there, but by keeping an eye on the tracking equipment, Illya was able to calculate where Moran was going as Napoleon drove through the crowded streets.

"Napoleon, if this trajectory is correct, a three-hour flight would put Moran in the Pantanal."

"Well, it's not unknown for THRUSH to set up hideouts in jungle environments," Napoleon said, as he pulled into the airfield. "We just need to find a way to get there—and quickly."

"Perhaps a charter flight or a small private plane?" Illya offered. "Assuming you know how to fly, of course."

"I do, but I've always felt more comfortable with…" Napoleon trailed off as he noticed a helicopter. He looked to Illya, who met his gaze, as well. "…Choppers. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I think so," Illya replied. "You fly; I shall contact the Rio branch of U.N.C.L.E. and tell them to prepare to secure Rio as best they can—and back us up in the Pantanal if they can spare the manpower."

"Good—but it's best not to mention the Baron specifically. They might think that I've swayed you over to this wild goose chase."

"…But we have proof!" Illya pointed out.

"They haven't heard it yet, and we don't have time to try to convince them," Napoleon explained. "Protecting Rio and preventing a successful THRUSH demonstration are our priorities now."

"…Right," Illya conceded. "Lead on."

Napoleon nodded and led the way; Illya was right behind him, and soon, after showing their IDs and promising fuel reimbursement to the owner of the chopper, were on their way. Illya used his communicator, relaying the information of what they knew to the Rio branch as he monitored the tracking feed.

It was a couple hours later that the tracker appeared to have stopped. Illya was relaying the final coordinates as they approached.

"Napoleon, look!" he exclaimed, pointing at a small pontoon plane that had landed on a marshy clearing.

"This isn't the final tracking location, is it?" Napoleon asked.

"No, but we are very close; they must have walked the rest of the distance," Illya said. "Their base here isn't too far from this location. That saves them the trouble of requiring additional transport."

Napoleon suddenly frowned; they were making a rather loud approach in the chopper, which would ruin their element of surprise if they really were close to the THRUSH base. Aside from the clearing, the area was surrounded by tropical wetland forest.

"Based on your tracker, how close would you say the base is—and in what direction?" he asked.

"Just a bit east of here; I would say about a kilometer—"

He was cut off by a sudden yell of alarm from Napoleon; the American had glanced back towards the east the moment Illya had mentioned the direction, and had seen a small rocket being launched right at them, no doubt shot from a rocket launcher that a THRUSHie was toting. Napoleon desperately tried to veer the chopper out of the rocket's trajectory—with only limited success.

"It got the tail!" he fumed, as they careened slightly off-course from the hit. Thankfully, it wasn't so bad that they chopper was incapable of flying—but there was no time to relax, either. "I've got to bring it down, Illya!"

"What!? They will capture us!"

"If I don't, they'll shoot us out of the sky!" Napoleon countered, bringing the chopper down. "I'd rather take our chances without having had a fall!"

Illya bit his lip, but he knew Napoleon was making the only logical choice. He nodded in agreement.

The American soon brought the chopper down not too far from Moran's pontoon plane. He was already out of the chopper and was heading for the safety of the marsh forest before realizing that Illya wasn't following him; the Russian was still at the chopper, trying to salvage his recording and tracking equipment.

"Illya-!"

"In here is the proof that Moran is the Baron!" Illya countered now. "After all you did to get to this point, it makes no sense to leave it where it can be found and destroyed!"

And now it was Napoleon's turn to concede that Illya had a good point; he himself went back to the chopper to help Illya carry the equipment.

"I think the best thing to do is find a place to hide the equipment and continue on towards the base," Illya said.

"We've got to find somewhere where it won't be destroyed by THRUSH or the elements," Napoleon said.

" _Da_ , I know; this is expensive equipment," Illya said, with a wry smile. "And we already have to reimburse the owner of that helicopter for the damage."

"Yeah," Napoleon sighed, as he looked back at the chopper, which had a broken tail that was still smoldering. "Well, at least it's only the tail that has to be repaired—"

The words had barely left his mouth when a second THRUSH rocket arced over their heads and landed right on top of the helicopter, which exploded before their eyes. The two agents hit the ground to avoid any shrapnel, and it was a few minutes before they dared to look up.

Napoleon now stared ahead with a look of utter disbelief at what remained of the chopper—which wasn't much at all—and raised his arms in a helpless gesture of absolute exasperation.

"…I just _had_ to say it, didn't I…?"

"Are you alright?" Illya asked, concerned, as he had been closer to the explosion.

"For now—but only until Mr. Waverly gets the expense report for what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission!" Napoleon exclaimed. He looked back at Illya with a helpless shrug.

The Russian lowered his gaze slightly; it had been his idea to chase Moran into the Pantanal, after all. He would have to discuss the expense report matter with Waverly once they returned—assuming they could escape from THRUSH here.

Napoleon's mind was elsewhere, now, though; he was looking around as he tugged on Illya's sleeve, leading him deeper into the marsh forest.

"THRUSH will be sending some grunts out here to survey the damage and make sure that we're taken care of," he said. "Hide the equipment in this undergrowth here; we need to be ready for them."

Once the equipment had been hidden away, the duo concealed themselves in another bit of undergrowth, everything silent save for the calls of parrots and monkeys in the trees above them and, every few minutes, the bellow of an annoyed caiman from somewhere out in the marsh. They didn't have too long to wait; two THRUSHies soon arrived. One indicated the wreckage of the chopper up ahead; as they headed towards it, Napoleon gently touched Illya's arm to signal that it was time to make their move.

Slowly, they drew their Specials, and, almost simultaneously, tranquilized the two THRUSHies. With the use of some thick jungle vines and their own handkerchiefs, the agents soon had them bound and gagged and hidden in the undergrowth, as well—but not before stealing their uniforms, which the duo soon changed into, hiding their normal clothes with their equipment, taking the bare necessities with them. They had also taken the THRUSH infrared guns, as well.

"Frightening, is it not?" Illya said, as he examined the weapon. "A device that can be used to kill in the darkest of nights; not even the dark provides cover anymore. Had they used the infrared devices, they would have found us; it is only due to luck that they did not have the presence of mind to do so. What fiend came up with such a device?"

"Moran's ancestor, Sebastian," Napoleon responded. "He was infamously renowned for his marksmanship skills. He was attempting to create a temperature-sensitive aiming mechanism shortly before he died; THRUSH continued to develop the design until we got to what you see here." He now adjusted the beret that was part of the THRUSH uniform; once he was satisfied, to turned to Illya and nodded. "If we go back in the direction that these two came from, it should lead us right to the base—and the lab where they're keeping that paralytic gas. And then, of course, we neutralize it."

"And Moran?" Illya asked, as they headed in that direction.

"If we can apprehend him, we will," Napoleon said. "We can worry about trying to convince others of his identity later. But, remember, the priority is the lab—we've got to protect the innocents first and prevent THRUSH from intimidating the Soviet Union into giving them the launch codes."

Illya had to admit that the thought of apprehending Moran then and there was appealing—and it would certainly impress both Waverly and Beldon, as well as set THRUSH back significantly. Still, building castles in the air was a foolish thing to do at any time, but especially so now—and as Napoleon had just pointed out, they had to put the well-being of those in Rio and the innocent people all across the globe first.

As they kept walking, it turned out that Napoleon's hunch was correct; they soon arrived at a fenced-off area that was being patrolled by other THRUSH grunts. The area itself wasn't very large, but there was a small, central structure, built almost like a storm cellar, that led to an underground facility.

"Just follow me and act like you belong here," Napoleon said, quietly.

Illya did as he was told, and, sure enough, the other grunts didn't give them a second glance as they entered through the gate at the side of the fence and then into the underground facility.

"The lab is probably on the deepest level," the American continued. "We can just say that we're trying to make sure that there's enough gas for the plot—"

"Hey!" a voice called at them from down the corridor. "You two!"

Illya froze as he recognized the voice as one of Moran's cronies. Napoleon shifted his position slightly so as to block Illya's face from his view.

"Just stay calm," he murmured under his breath to Illya while briefly saluting Moran's flunky.

"Were you the ones we sent to see if there were any survivors in that helicopter?" the flunky asked.

"Yes, Sir," Napoleon said. "There were no survivors; the explosion saw to that."

"Was there any reason to believe that the occupants of the helicopter were U.N.C.L.E. agents?"

"None at all, Sir," Napoleon said. "They appear to have been curious explorers that ended up finding out too much—not that it matters now, of course."

"Good," the flunky said. "The Baron will be pleased; he is in conference right now, but I will be sure to tell him as soon as he is free. You have both done good work; you can expect a pay raise soon."

Napoleon suppressed a smirk as the flunky headed back in the direction he had come from.

"How do you like that?" he mused at Illya. "My first day with THRUSH, and I've already got a raise."

"Bravo," Illya intoned, amused.

The search for the lab continued, and it was Napoleon who found it—and the canisters of gas lined up against the wall. He let out a quiet sigh as he took note of the labels on the canisters.

"This is what we're after, alright. They're all ready to go for their raid on Rio," he said. He picked up a sheaf of papers near the canisters that had the same serial number as the stickers on the canister. "And here's the formula. Chemistry wasn't my strong point; can you make anything out of this?"

"My area was quantum mechanics, but I did take a few chemistry courses on the side…" Illya began, but he trailed off as he looked at the formula. His eyes widened in excitement. "Napoleon…!"

"What? I hope you have good news…."

" _Da_ , I do!" Illya replied. "As of now, this paralytic gas is unstable and breaks down into harmless compounds in the presence of liquid water—not only that, but its paralytic effects within the body are restricted to about thirty minutes on account of the body's natural water content!"

"…That doesn't sound like an effective tool to use at all to try to coerce foreign officials to hand over launch codes," Napoleon said, with a frown. "Then again, thirty minutes is all they'd need to make a statement—they could fake giving an antidote to make it seem as though they controlled the revival of the victims."

"True," Illya sighed, sobering immediately. "What is more, it is clear to me that they are trying to adjust the formula such that water will no longer have an effect on it. I expect they're in a rush to make a statement, so they're willing to demonstrate with this less-than-perfect version first."

"Well, imperfect or not, we can't let them get the chance to have their way with Carnival—or the Russian officials," Napoleon said. "Those papers you have—are those where they're trying to adjust the formula?"

" _Da_ , they are."

Napoleon now glanced towards the ceiling—and the automatic emergency sprinklers that had been installed there.

"Illya…" he said, with a smirk. "Do you think an explosion would get rid of two birds with one stone?"

Illya smirked, as well, and placed the sheaf of papers on the canisters as Napoleon pulled a grenade from his pocket.

"Nice of our THRUSH friends to equip us with exactly what we needed," Napoleon said. "Alright, let's drop this and go; I think you have one, too, that we can leave just as a bit of an insurance policy."

"Right, but what about Moran?" Illya asked, as he drew out a grenade, as well. "Do we go after him after we leave these here?"

Napoleon paused, frowning as he considered their options.

"As much as I want to, I don't think that's possible, considering that all the grunts _and_ his personal crew of flunkies will be around him. Just let them think this explosion was an accident or a sabotage attempt from within rather than trying to tie it in to U.N.C.L.E.; we're getting out of here."

Illya nodded, impressed with Napoleon's decision. Indeed, working with the American had shown the Russian that he was not the overly zealous Icarus heading for the sun as the rumor mill claimed him to be.

They left the grenades and attempted to leave as quickly as they could without attracting attention. They had made it aboveground and were heading for the fence around the compound when the ground beneath them shook as the grenades went off.

"Run!" Napoleon ordered, as the THRUSHies around them stared at the cellar structure in confusion.

There was no time to try to find the gate of the fence; they reached the edge and Napoleon cupped his hands to allow Illya to use them as a boost to get himself over the fence. Once at the top, he extended a hand down to Napoleon and began to pull him up as the THRUSHies finally noticed their escape.

First there was shouting, and then there was shooting. One bullet narrowly missed Illya's ear, but it was as he turned back to his American partner that he heard another shot ring out close by, followed by Napoleon's eyes widening in pain.

"Napoleon!" Illya exclaimed. He let out a yelp as Napoleon began to fall back, and the Russian braced himself and pulled, dragging his partner over the fence.

They were still being shot at; Illya immediately hoisted his partner over his shoulders and ran back into the marsh forest, not daring to stop until he was certain they were a safe enough distance away.

Gently, he laid Napoleon up against a tree in a sitting position, concerned at the growing gaunt expression on the American's face.

"Where are you hit?"

"L…Leg…" Napoleon hissed, cringing as he glanced down and stared pointedly at the blood beginning to seep through his left thigh.

" _Bozhe moy_ ; I think the bullet is still in your leg!" Illya gasped, quietly. "You should have told me! Carrying you along so carelessly as I had, I could have easily jostled the bullet and allowed it to nick your femoral artery! Oh, Napoleon, forgive me!"

"Nothing to forgive…" the American said, through gritted teeth. "Just get me out of here."

"If I move you, that bullet could still nick your femoral artery," Illya said. "You would have no chance if that happened—death by exsanguination!"

Napoleon exhaled as he shut his eyes, ignoring the sweat pouring down his face.

"Okay," he sighed, after a moment. "You keep going—call for an extraction to get me out."

"Leave you so close to the THRUSH base? They will kill you for certain!"

"They won't exactly be easy on you if you're found here, either," Napoleon countered. He cringed as the pain in his leg spiked. "Illya, it makes sense for at least one of us to make it out of here."

Illya looked at his partner and his pained expression for a moment before looking around to make sure that they had enough distance from the THRUSHies.

"I shall get the bullet out of your leg," he insisted, at last.

"What-!?"

"Trust me, Napoleon," Illya said. Though his degree had been in quantum mechanics, he had taken several anatomy courses with the intent of getting a second degree in pathology. He was just about ready to explain this when Napoleon gave him a long look—and nodded.

"Alright," the American said, gambling on the man he'd only known for two weeks.

Illya decided that with time of the essence, he would skip the explanation for another day; he pulled a knife, tweezers, a matchbook, and the small bottle of cachaça from earlier out of his pockets; after cutting the trouser leg off of Napoleon, Illya used the cachaça and a flame from a match to sterilize the knife and tweezers, and then poured a bit of the cachaça on the wound. Napoleon cringed again.

"Should I sit on my hands?" he asked.

"That may be best," Illya said. "There will be nothing in the way of anesthetic."

"Do what you gotta do," Napoleon said, with a nod.

Illya nodded back and positioned himself such that he could hold the leg steady with the crook of his arm; Napoleon would likely attempt to move his leg by reflex, no matter how much he would try to resist doing so. Illya took a moment to steel himself and then began to do the rudimentary surgery.

Napoleon's leg tensed beneath his hold, and Illya could see his partner out of the corner of his eye going slightly pale, suppressing a growing cry in his throat. Illya forced himself to continue with the surgery.

He wasn't sure for how long it went on for—it might have been fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. But, at last, he got the bullet out and quickly disinfected the wound with more cachaça before wrapping the wound with strips of cloth from the cut trouser leg and then releasing Napoleon's leg.

"It's over," he said.

Napoleon grabbed his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off of his face. Illya handed over what remained of the cachaça and Napoleon drank it down before he was able to speak.

"Illya… thank you…"

"Do not thank me yet," the Russian insisted, once again keeping his partner across his shoulders. "Wait until the extraction team finds us." His hand left Napoleon's arm as he went for his communicator. "Open Channel D…"

* * *

Napoleon had tried to stay awake, but his ordeal had exhausted him; in spite of himself, he was soon out cold. He awoke some time later to the feel of a warm bed—and the sound of hushed voices. The scent of antiseptic told him he was in Medical.

"The doctor tells me that you did a most excellent job treating Mr. Solo's wound, Mr. Kuryakin," he heard Waverly say. "I do believe you could have had a successful career as a surgeon."

"I am content where I am, Sir," Napoleon heard Illya say.

Mr. Waverly lowered his voice.

"I also wish to congratulate the both of you on the evidence you obtained on proving that Moran is the Baron; you'll understand, of course, that we're keeping this information under wraps to avoid sending Moran into hiding."

" _Da_ , Sir, I understand," he heard Illya say. "But I cannot take any credit for this; it was all Napoleon's doing—as was saving Rio from the paralytic gas attack. His efforts over the last two years have finally borne fruit."

"Yes… pity it couldn't have been without that exorbitant expense account for that destroyed helicopter."

"…That was, alas, _my_ doing, Sir. I am fully prepared to have my wages reduced to make up for it."

Napoleon continued to lie there, stunned. Not only was Illya giving Napoleon all of the credit for their success, but he was taking the blame for their failures, as well.

"He's… selling himself… short, Sir…" Napoleon said, straining to be heard.

"Napoleon…!" Illya exclaimed, sounding rather embarrassed.

"Welcome back, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Now what is this you're telling me about your half of the story?"

Napoleon opened his eyes to see Illya and Waverly standing by his bedside. Illya seemed to be staring at the floor, awkwardly.

"Only that I couldn't have gotten the evidence or stopped the gas plot without Illya's help," Napoleon said. "And also that the chopper was just as much my fault, too."

"How about the both of you compose the mission report together and have it on my desk as soon as possible?" Waverly offered. "I'll leave the two of you to sort it out. Good day, Gentlemen."

Hiding his amusement, Waverly soon left Medical. Illya watched him leave and then sat down in a chair beside Napoleon's bed.

"I am glad to see you are well," Illya said, after a long silence.

"I wouldn't have been, if you hadn't gotten that bullet out of my leg," Napoleon said, sincerely. "If you hadn't been there, they'd have killed me." He sighed. It was impossible to think that, two weeks ago, he hadn't wanted a partner, and now… "Illya… The successes and failures in Rio were both ours. You don't… You don't have to make yourself look bad to make me look good. Remember that next time."

Illya looked to him with a wan smile.

"There shall be a next time?"

"Well… I think we did pretty well," Napoleon said. "And I think that maybe we can get a better crack at Moran now that…" He trailed off, the words not really needing to be said— _Now that we know that we can trust each other with our lives if need be_.

Illya nodded, understanding.

" _Da_. Those two THRUSH grunts we tranquilized are currently being interrogated; hopefully, they shall have some information about Moran's next plans for us," the Russian said. "But first, you must recover."

"I'm on it," Napoleon promised, with a grin.

And Illya grinned back, the both of them looking forward to their next mission—one that would hopefully bring them closer to apprehending the Baron.

Until then, however, they would continue to enjoy each other's company.


	3. Act III: Bolero of Fire

**Act III: Bolero of Fire**

A month of research, intelligence work, interrogating prisoners, and some amount of what fellow agents referred to as "Solo's luck" got the information that Moran was heading for Monte Carlo. And Napoleon was very eager to apprehend him in this time.

"Between the audio evidence we have of him being the Baron of THRUSH, as well as his failed plot to use that paralytic gas, we have enough to bring him in and put him away," Napoleon declared quietly as they traveled on the flight to Monte Carlo.

"But there is also a chance he might be planning something at one of the casinos there at Monte Carlo," Illya said. "It's been a month since Rio; that is more than enough time for them to have replenished the paralytic or come up with an alternate plan."

"And so we'll stop him," Napoleon agreed. He frowned in discomfort and attempted to adjust his seat. "Sometimes, I wish Mr. Waverly and the other heads would consider allowing U.N.C.L.E. to use private transport rather than commercial airlines."

"It _is_ more economical," Illya pointed out.

"…He could've at least sprung for first class."

The Russian smirked at his travel-weary partner.

"Always wanting only the finest things in life…" he teased. "You Americans are all the same…"

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," Napoleon countered.

"I did not see you volunteering your personal funds to upgrade our seats so that I _could_ try it."

Napoleon gave him a look, and Illya hid a mischievous smile behind his hand.

They bantered and teased for the duration of the flight, and once they had landed and stopped off at the hotel to change into tuxedos, they were soon en route to the casino where Moran was.

"I have to say, we're a sharp-dressed pair, aren't we?" Napoleon mused, adjusting his bow tie.

"If you say so," Illya replied, with a dismissive shrug. He peered around the casino. "I see the Baron over there, by the roulette wheel…" He trailed off, freezing as he noticed something—or, rather, someone—behind Moran and the roulette wheel.

"Illya?" Napoleon asked. "Illya, what is it?" Illya didn't answer, and so Napoleon followed the Russian's gaze past Moran and at a well-dressed man with dark hair over by the slot machines on the opposite wall.

Napoleon glanced back at his partner, who had paled slightly now—and prompted concern from the American.

"Illya, are you alright? Illya, talk to me."

"I… I think the two of us should split up," Illya stammered. "We can cover more ground that way."

"Cover more ground? Illya, we _know_ where Moran is!" Napoleon looked to his partner and paused as he saw the look in the Russian's eyes. Illya clearly wanted to disappear for some reason—and this mysterious stranger was probably that reason. Napoleon sighed; if there was some history between Illya and that stranger, it could be something that would ruin their cover, which was not what they wanted with Moran in reach at long last. "Alright. I'll catch up with you later."

" _Da_ ," Illya said, gratefully, and he disappeared into the crowd.

Napoleon headed towards the slot machines, still keeping an eye on Moran, but intending to find out just who this person was who could send his normally stalwart partner fleeing for cover. He took the machine next to the stranger, fed it a coin, and pulled the handle—only to line up three cherries in a row, resulting in a spillage of coins.

The man gave him a sidelong glance of disbelief as Napoleon shrugged innocently and picked up the coins he had won.

"Beginner's luck," Napoleon chuckled.

The man let out a grunt.

"Just be careful if you win any bills if you cash in any chips you win at the tables," he said. "Or else you'll find your luck running out. There've been reports of counterfeit money coming from this casino."

"…You don't say," Napoleon said, arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah," the man said. "I'm here to find out more about it—but keep it between ourselves, huh?" He frowned at Napoleon's puzzled look. "Look, I don't want this to get spread around; that'd ruin what I'm trying to do about it. I probably shouldn't be showing you this, but you know the half of it, so you may as well know the rest…" He showed an identity card to Napoleon. "Neil Broker—FBI."

"Ah," Napoleon said, nodding as he debated whether or not to share his own credentials. In the end, he opted not to; something about this didn't seem right—an undercover FBI shouldn't have been that quick to reveal their identity, even to another American. And there was still the matter of why the very sight of this man was enough to send Illya Kuryakin running to hide in the crowd. Napoleon sighed inwardly, but gave a friendly smile. "Well, if there's anything I can do, please let me know."

Broker nodded, and Napoleon took his winnings and headed back into the crowd to observe the Baron. He paused as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see his partner staring up at him.

"What did you tell him?" Illya asked. "What did he tell you?"

"Illya?"

"What. Did he. Tell you?"

"He said his name was Neil Broker, he's an FBI agent, and he's here looking for counterfeiters," Napoleon said. "Something about it didn't add up, so I didn't tell him who I was or that I'm with U.N.C.L.E.; I can't quite put my finger on it, though."

The Russian breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.

"It is good that you did not."

"Care to tell me why?"

"Broker is an opportunist and a liar; he would have likely gone after Moran himself and stolen all the glory that is rightfully yours."

" _Ours_ ," Napoleon corrected him instinctively. He paused, his expression softening slightly. "He did something like that to you?"

"Partly," Illya said, quietly. "I was a young fool. I was only 18, and had just joined the Soviet Navy; I was on a mission to get some important information. I met Broker along the way, and he revealed to me that the US was seeking that same information—and that we would succeed and please both of our home nations if we worked together. I wanted to look good in front of my superiors, of course, and I thought that quickly succeeding on a mission, even with a bit of help, would impress them."

"…Broker took the information and ran?" Napoleon finished.

"And my mission was a colossal failure," Illya agreed, the bitterness evident in his otherwise neutral voice. "There is more to this story that I do not wish to recall—things that occurred when I confronted Broker afterwards. It served as a valuable lesson and a harsh reminder as to why I should trust no one but myself."

The silence that followed was a long an awkward one; Napoleon decided to break it.

"Illya," he said. "I want you to know-"

"We should just get the Baron and get out of here," Illya said, cutting him off. "He will remember me from Rio; I can start a conversation with him and lead him to the exit. You wait there and make the arrest."

Without waiting for a response, Illya disappeared into the crowd. And Napoleon watched him leave, unable to help but think that once they made the arrest and Moran was put away, Illya would pack up and return to Europe and his solitary existence. And for some reason he couldn't put his finger on, that didn't sit well with him at all; he made a mental note to try to talk Illya out of it later, and began to head for the exit while keeping an eye on Illya and Moran.

Illya had approached Moran, keeping the fake received pronunciation accent from the last time. It took a moment, but Moran recalled him, commenting on how much more sober he seemed this time. They continued to chat for a while; Illya was waiting for Moran to lower his guard enough. At last, Illya indicated the nearby exit. Moran, on the other hand, was indicating a nearby chef who was demonstrating for some observers how to make a flaming cherries jubilee; clearly, he wanted to partake in it before leaving, much to Illya's frustration.

Napoleon quickly realized that he would have to make the arrest right here and now. Moran's attention was shifting to the chef, and while he was occupied, Napoleon slipped through the crowd, towards them, ready to claim his prize…

 _Our prize_ , he mentally corrected himself. He knew he wouldn't have gotten this far without Illya; the Russian had, after all, pulled a bullet from his leg. _This will be his victory, too… I just hope he sticks around here to celebrate it_ …

His train of thought froze as he saw Broker heading for Illya and Moran with a determined look in his eyes.

 _No!_ Napoleon silently thought.

He tried to cut Broker off, but Broker reached them first.

"What are you doing here!?" Broker hissed at Illya.

Moran merely looked confused, but Illya paled.

"Don't let this scum fool you, Moran," Broker said, turning to him now. "This man is no Englishman; his name is Kuryakin—of the Soviet Navy! He is here to stop you from trying to question the Soviets to get their launch codes! He probably knows something about them, the menace!"

Moran cursed, and Illya, realizing that he had to act, tried to make a grab for him, but Broker got in the way, planting a right cross on the Russian's face. The blow sent Illya flying backwards—into the cart with the flaming cherries jubilee, which tipped and set the floor and nearby tablecloths alight.

Panic broke out as the fire began to spread; alarms blared and sprinklers switched on. As Napoleon tried to get to his partner's side, patrons fled in the opposite direction, screaming, and Napoleon found himself fighting the crowd. To his surprise, he could hear Broker yelling at Moran to flee.

Moran ran right past Napoleon; the American briefly turned around now, altering course. Their prize was close—so close! And Moran wasn't even looking back…

A sharp cry from Illya caused Napoleon to turn back around; Broker was still punching him—picking Illya up and hitting him again, sending him further into the ignited parts of the casino.

Napoleon looked from the retreating Moran to his partner, who was trying to fight back but kept taking more hits than he was able to counter. Broker knocked him down once more, and then lifted his head by grabbing the back of the blond's hair, holding him in front of some nearby flames.

"Just like old times, eh, Kuryakin?" Broker sneered. "Me setting the Soviets behind at your expense? Oh, this does bring back memories… Well, except for one thing…"

Illya hissed a defiant curse and tried to struggle, but instead found a knee planted in his back.

"There's no need to get unpleasant," Broker said. "I was about to offer you a chance to do something with that otherwise useless life of yours-"

There was the sound of a gunshot and Broker slumped over on his side, a tranquilizer dart stuck in his shoulder. Illya gasped for breath as he got to his knees, pulling away from the flames. He stared at the tranquilized Broker as if in a trance until a hand gently touched the side of his face where he had been hit; the trance broke somewhat, and Illya glanced up at the face of his concerned partner.

"Illya? Illya, are you alright?"

The Russian looked from Napoleon, to the Special in his hand, and to the unconscious Broker.

"Oh, Napoleon…" he moaned. "Do you realize what you've done!? You just tranquilized your own government's man!"

"I just tranquilized a THRUSH turncoat that was within the agency," Napoleon stated, lowering his hand now for Illya to take.

"…What…?" the Russian asked, accepting the hand as Napoleon helped him up.

"Broker knew that Moran was the Baron," Napoleon said. "The Baron is the one trying to threaten the Soviets to get the launch codes for THRUSH—and Broker warned Moran that you were trying to upset that. And the only ones who know all this are you, me, Mr. Waverly, and THRUSH."

The realization dawned in Illya's eyes.

"And Moran?" he asked, eagerly. "You did get him?"

Napoleon's face fell.

"No, I… I let him go."

And now Illya looked mortified.

"…Because of me."

"No. Illya, no-"

"You let him go to help me."

"I was backing you up like I was supposed to do," Napoleon said. "Personnel safety is the top priority in any mission. And speaking of safety, can we get out of this casino before the flames bring it down on top of us?"

He pulled Broker up and dragged him out of the casino; Illya helped him, but his expression did not change.

"I cost us the mission," he said, quietly.

" _Broker_ cost us the mission," Napoleon insisted. "And I'm going to enjoy interrogating him to make up for it. Luckily for us, he seems close enough to Moran to let us know where he'd be headed next."

But Illya didn't seem to be consoled by this at all; his expression didn't change even after they left Monte Carlo for New York, with their prisoner in tow. Napoleon was determined to ensure that he and Illya gave their mission report together; he wasn't about to let Illya blame himself again as he had tried to do in Rio.

Eventually, they both appeared in front of Waverly. Illya was still nursing bruises on his face, including a black eye.

"Gentlemen," Waverly said. "You'll be pleased to know that Mr. Neil Broker—one of many aliases—is indeed a THRUSH agent. He is also an FBI agent—albeit a rogue one; the agency deeply regrets the trouble he has caused. They'd been looking for him for a long time, and are eager to take him into custody."

"Just how long has he been rogue for?" Napoleon asked.

"Far longer than they care to admit; his affiliation with THRUSH goes back years and years, and the agency is quite embarrassed by it—so much so that I have convinced them to keep their hands off of Mr. Kuryakin."

"They wanted to question Illya?" Napoleon asked, as the Russian lowered his gaze.

"Merely to find out what his past history is with him—see if he can give them testimony. So they claim, of course. Since we were cleaning their mess, so to speak, it gives us a bit of leverage, and I absolutely refused to allow them to have Mr. Kuryakin in their custody. If they wish to speak with him, they shall have to come here, and you, Mr. Solo, shall be present for the entire time."

"I would have insisted on it," Napoleon agreed.

"I appreciate that," Illya said, quietly.

"I will need a mission report—and Mr. Solo has requested that you both compile the mission report together again," Waverly added.

Illya gave Napoleon an unreadable glance.

"Very well, Sir," he said. "If you'll excuse me, I will see if there is something Medical can do for my eye…"

Now it was Napoleon's turn to give him a look. Illya never willingly went to Medical (no more than Napoleon did); in fact, the last time Illya had been in there, he'd attempted to leave while sedated by painkillers.

Waverly knew this, but let him go anyway, and then nodded as Napoleon silently queried whether he could go, as well.

After heading into the corridor, he could see Illya heading in the direction opposite from Medical. Napoleon exhaled, but followed him. Illya paused in the break room, absently looking at the vending machine.

"Don't you have anything better to do, Napoleon?" he asked, not even turning around.

"Not really, no. Not until Broker is ready for interrogation."

"Would you mind doing me a favor?"

"Anything," Napoleon said, immediately.

"Question him without me. I do not want to be there."

Napoleon blinked. He tried to push away the idea that Illya was returning to his former ways of working alone after Broker returned as his reminder of how he shouldn't trust anyone.

"Illya…" Napoleon began, but then he trailed off, recalling Illya's words back in Monte Carlo.

 _"There is more to this story that I do not wish to recall—things that occurred when I confronted Broker afterwards. It served as a valuable lesson and a harsh reminder as to why I should trust no one but myself."_

Napoleon looked away now; the way Illya was glaring at his bruises and black eye in the reflection of the vending machine made it clear that this was not the first time he'd received those at Broker's hands.

"Alright," Napoleon said. "I'll handle the interrogation myself."

" _Spacibo_."

There was a long silence.

"So, ah…" Napoleon said. "You want to go grab dinner somewhere?"

Illya looked back at him, his face expressionless.

"If you'd rather not, I'll understand," Napoleon added, hastily. "I just thought you'd want something more substantial than chips or cookies." He silently indicated the vending machine.

Illya responded with a slightly bemused "Hmm!"

"What was that for?"

"I am just appreciating the irony," the Russian said. "Solo. Your very surname means 'alone.' From what I understand, you lived by that as much as I did. You know my reason for it. What was yours?"

"After all those previous partners failed in working out, I'd just gotten so used to it. Sometimes, it's easier managing everything on your own; you don't have to worry about whether or not anyone else is on the same page as you. It becomes a habit. I had been doing fine on my own…" Napoleon trailed off, the bullet in his leg from Rio fresh in his mind.

"And yet you are worried that I do not trust you," Illya said.

"W-What?" Napoleon stammered, a little too quickly. "That's not it at all!"

"Napoleon, it is written all over your face—and I do not blame you; after what I said in Monte Carlo, you have good reason to think that," Illya said. He paused to let out a quiet sigh. "Tell me, Napoleon, when you worked alone, did you enjoy it?"

"I didn't really think about it one way or the other. Like I said, it sort of becomes a habit," the American said, with a shrug.

"I know you didn't want a partner when Mr. Waverly brought my name up. What made you say yes?"

"…Well for one thing, I'd given all my potential partners a trial run… Ah, why are we bringing this up now?"

"It is pertinent to what we are discussing," Illya assured him. "My question is, would you have been content remaining without a partner, or would you have felt something missing?"

Napoleon thought for a moment and shrugged.

"I don't really know," he admitted.

"And my being here… Has it helped?"

"You were the one who pulled the bullet out of my leg last month. You tell me."

Illya managed a wan smile.

"Very well, Napoleon. I know I have earned your trust. And you have the right to know that I do trust you, too. After all, I agreed to come here."

"And what made you break your own rule?" Napoleon asked, feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders.

"…You know, I am not quite sure myself," Illya admitted. "Now, I think I shall take you up on that offer of dinner—preferably a takeaway; I have no desire to be out in public with my face as it is."

"Fine by me. And when we get back to the apartment, I'll see if I can find something for your eye."

And they headed off together-the mission less than successful, but their partnership still intact. And at the moment, that was all that mattered.


	4. Act IV: Serenade of Water

_Notes: the incident mentioned in the beginning of this part regarding Illya getting captured by THRUSH and questioned about the Soviet launch codes is referring to a set of four blurbs I posted on AO3 and tumblr called "Regret."_

* * *

 **Act IV: Serenade of Water**

The weeks following the events at Monte Carlo proved to be a difficult time for Illya-although Moran never did find out that he was a member of U.N.C.L.E., Moran had sent THRUSH after him in the hopes that he knew something about the Soviet launch codes. What had followed were intense questioning sessions that had ended only when Napoleon had finally found him.

Napoleon had been furious with himself (for not being able to prevent Illya's capture) and with Broker (who had ruined everything in Monte Carlo in the first place and had sent Moran after Illya for the codes). As Illya recovered from his ordeal, during the rare times Napoleon wasn't by his side, he was interrogating Broker for what he knew about Moran's itinerary.

"You're wasting your time, Solo," Broker sneered. "I still don't know how you managed to figure out that Lord Moran is the Baron, but that information will do you no good. And what makes you think I'm going to talk?"

"Because I'm through playing nice," Napoleon hissed.

"You may have taken down Partridge, but Lord Moran is far craftier," Broker said. "You're dreaming of a glory that you'll never even get close to."

"This isn't about glory; it never was," Napoleon countered. "And it stopped being about anything else after Moran's flunkies took Illya! Now, it's personal."

"Kuryakin?" Broker asked in disbelief. "This is about some scrawny socialist?"

"This is about _my partner_ ," Napoleon corrected him. "Moran's men tortured him for three weeks, trying to get those launch codes before I got him out of that dungeon!"

"You should've left him there," Broker said. "Solo, for crying out loud, he's one of _them_. I was doing you a favor! The entire reason I'm supporting Moran is because he's intending to have THRUSH disarm the Soviets!"

"Oh, sure-so he can set the world on fire himself!" Napoleon shot back.

"I'm warning you, Solo-you throw in your lot with Kuryakin, and you'll end up dead for certain!" Broker said. "They've been systematically trained to hate us. You can't trust them—only use them."

"So that's why you used a man who thought he was working with you?"

"Oh, so he told you?" Broker asked. "As if Kuryakin hadn't been planning to do the same to me! I just beat him to it."

"And then gave him a beating, as well," Napoleon scowled, leaning into Broker's personal space. "And then you gave him one again in Monte Carlo. And then he had to put up with _three weeks_ of beatings because you put the idea into Moran's head that Illya knows something about the launch codes."

"He does," Broker countered. "I kept tabs on Kuryakin after our encounter; his naval division was one that was eventually selected for intelligence work. You'll never know the things in his head."

"Give me one good reason why I should believe you," Napoleon said.

"Because I'm one of you, and Kuryrakin is one of them," Broker said. "You can't trust him, Solo. You'd have seen his file; he's still a member of the Soviet Navy-says so right there. They can call him back at any time, and he'll blast you to kingdom come without blinking if they order him to."

"He saved my life in Brazil."

"It's in their interest to use you to stop Lord Moran; that's why he did it. Anything Kuryakin does for you is filled with ulterior motives. The moment your mission is done with and you have Lord Moran in custody, Kuryakin will leave you for dead and return to Russia with Lord Moran."

"I said give me a good reason, not some sick and twisted fairy tale!"

"I'm being serious, Solo!" Broker said, raising his voice now. "People like Kuryakin need to be reminded that it's us-Americans like you and me-who run this world, and he needs to know his place in it!"

"Don't put me in the same boat as you," Napoleon countered. "Illya's place is by my side."

"Then you'll end up with a knife in your back," Broker warned. "But I see you won't believe me, so I'll tell you this-some information on good faith; once it checks out, you'll know that I'm telling the truth-about this and about Kuryakin."

"Go on…"

"Lord Moran owns a yacht that he likes to take around the Pacific during the summer," Broker said. "It's August now, so you'll find him just offshore of Oahu, but he'll be heavily guarded after Monte Carlo, so don't expect to get near him."

Napoleon exhaled.

"That checks out with what intelligence we've picked up," he murmured.

"So, you see? It's true."

"Maybe _that_ is," Napoleon admitted. "But as far as everything else is concerned, we're done here." He pushed a button to indicate to the person outside-Mark Slate, in this case-that he was done questioning Broker and moved to leave.

"Solo, I'm serious!" Broker yelled after him. "You have to admit that I've known him longer than you have! And I'm telling you that you can't trust him! One of these days, you're going to have to choose between him or us-and the wrong choice will kill you!"

Napoleon ignored him and nodded a greeting at Mark as he left; his expression was neutral as he returned his badge at the badge desk and headed back to the apartment building.

He glanced at the door of Illya's apartment, decided that he'd change before dropping in, and instead opened his own apartment door—pausing as he saw Illya looking up at him from the sofa, a bowl of goulash in his hands.

"Oh, hello," the Russian said. "I got a bit hungry, and I knew there was that leftover goulash you had made yesterday, so I let myself in."

"When are you _not_ a bit hungry?" Napoleon mused.

Illya shrugged and resumed eating, much to Napoleon's amusement.

It was amazing, the change in Illya after six months as partners; for the first few months, the Russian had been walking on eggshells, being overly quiet and polite about everything for fear of offending him. Now, he was letting himself in and raiding the refrigerator. It was, in part, due to having spent the last few weeks recovering from his ordeal in Napoleon's apartment; Napoleon had insisted that Illya stay here where he could look after him, and Napoleon had, apparently, done a good job in making him feel right at home.

Illya's voice brought him back to the present.

"Anything new on the Baron?" Illya was asking.

"Broker confirmed Moran's current location," Napoleon said. "Mr. Waverly said that I could head there as soon as I received confirmation; I've booked tickets already."

Illya's shoulders went rigid at the mention of Broker, but he relaxed after a moment.

"I hope you have a successful mission," he said, resuming his snack. "Who are you taking with you?"

"That's the other news I have for you," Napoleon said, handing Illya an envelope. "This came from Medical; you've sufficiently recovered enough for out-of-state missions. So, I'm taking you."

Illya looked up at him in surprise, but then smiled.

"Thank you, Napoleon. Hopefully I can be of more use to you now than I have been these past few weeks."

"You were fine," Napoleon insisted. "And I'm sure you'll be even better once we go to Oahu."

The Russian froze.

"…Oahu…?" he repeated.

"Yeah," Napoleon grinned. "Moran's out in the warm tropics. It's going to be like a working vacation."

Illya mumbled something unintelligible into the goulash in response, and then finished it up and put his bowl in the sink.

"You alright, Illya?"

" _Da_. I shall be fine. I should probably start packing."

"Need any help?"

"I can manage," Illya said, and he took his leave and returned back to his apartment. He sighed. Just his luck that his first return out-of-state mission would be to a hot and humid climate…

* * *

The flight had been long but uneventful. After enduring getting garlanded by leis and stepping out into the hot, tropical air, escaping to the air-conditioned comfort of their hotel room was a much-welcomed retreat.

Illya now scowled to himself as he donned a pair of short shorts and threw on a short-sleeved white polo shirt. He opted to leave the shirt unbutton as he glanced in the mirror; his scowl deepened as he looked at his skinny, gangly legs. How he wished that he could dress with a bit more dignity! Alas, the heat and the humidity of Hawaii in summertime made covering up a nightmare.

"And people call this paradise…?" he muttered.

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, _Tovarisch_ ," Napoleon recited once again, from behind him.

"I _did_ try it!" Illya said, turning to face him. "And from the moment I stepped out into this humid, tropical climate, I…" The Russian trailed off, staring at his American partner, who had changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a loud, Hawaiian shirt that was bright crimson, splotched with colorful tropical flowers.

"Do I look that stunning?" Napoleon asked.

"You look like a bird trying to attract a mate with bright colors," Illya said, flatly, giving him a searching look. "All that is missing is some sort of bizarre courtship dance…"

"Well, since you brought it up, I have been practicing my Hula ever since I first heard that Moran was likely here in Hawaii…"

" _Da_ , Napoleon, but if we are here to trail Moran, you are going to stand out like a sore thumb!"

"On the contrary, I'm actually going to blend right in," Napoleon said, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. "Take a look out the window, and you'll see that this is what most of the tourists here are wearing."

"… _Why_?" Illya asked, flabbergasted.

"Funnily enough, I never questioned that," Napoleon said, with a shrug, before heading to the mirror to check that his lotion was properly applied. "Need some suntan lotion for yourself, Illya?"

"I need _sunscreen_ ," the Russian muttered, getting the bottle from his own luggage, which he had packed the moment Napoleon had announced they were to be assigned on a mission in the tropics.

"You don't tan?" Napoleon asked.

"No, I do not," he replied, applying it. "I burn. And unless I use this sunscreen, by the end of the day, I shall look like your shirt."

"Well, for future reference, in case you ever get a sunburn, you'll find that a few paper towels soaked in vinegar can help you."

"You would put an acidic substance on a sunburn?" Illya asked. "It sounds like an invitation to further pain."

"I know it defies all logic, but it works," Napoleon said.

"Are you speaking from personal experience?"

"No, but I have a cousin who swears by it. I've never actually had a sunburn…"

"…You would not," Illya agreed. "Of course. What was I thinking?"

Illya didn't question that; it seemed like the natural order of things—Napoleon Solo always looked 100% flawless… even when wearing a Hawaiian shirt so loud that Illya was certain it could be heard from the mainland.

Napoleon just grinned at his partner and checked his watch.

"Okay, after compiling all of the information we received, Moran should be out on his yacht all afternoon starting at 2:30. That gives us a two-hour window for lunch and a short stroll down a nearby beach before we begin our surveillance," he said.

"A walk in the peak of the sun's heat, surrounded by tourists on a crowded beach? I can hardly wait," Illya said, in a flat tone of voice.

"I thought you'd say that," Napoleon said. "So I bought you this—from the gift shop downstairs."

Illya was dreading something garish like Napoleon's shirt, but he was pleasantly surprised when Napoleon tossed him a canvas sunhat instead.

"…Thank you, Napoleon," he said, humbly. "I feel that this shall be useful, indeed."

"Glad you like it," Napoleon grinned. "Now how about we find something to eat before we take that walk?"

" _Da_ ," the Russian replied, finally grinning, as well.

He donned his new hat and followed Napoleon out of the hotel room. Perhaps Hawaii wasn't going to be that bad after all…

And, indeed, it wasn't as bad as Illya thought it was going to be initially. The sunhat proved to be an adequate shield. And lunch and a walk with Napoleon proved to be enjoyable, after all. And soon, it was time for surveillance as they searched for Moran's yacht.

"Illya, I think that must be it!" Napoleon said, looking out onto the water with a pair of binoculars, reading the name on the bow. "The _Sharpshooter_. Yeah, that's Moran, alright—the name is another reference to his ancestor Sebastian."

Illya exhaled.

"So, what are we to do?" he asked. "Storm the yacht and take him prisoner? It shall not be that easy, and with all of his prestige, he can easily turn the crowd of vacationers here against us."

"I'm aware of that," Napoleon said. "The most important thing right now is for us to affix a tracking device on that yacht—I have a couple of small, waterproof trackers that can be attached on to the bottom of the yacht and won't come unstuck. We can wait until he goes somewhere more secluded and then attempt to apprehend him."

"And how do you propose we bell the cat?"

"Simple-we grab a small boat, get alongside the yacht and attach a tracker—or both for good measure," Napoleon said. "And then we track him."

Illya kept his expression neutral, even though his stomach did a somersault at the thought of it. His seasickness was his best-kept secret-and one of the few things that could impede him.

"A boat?" he repeated. "You think we should just head out there in a boat?"

"You have another idea?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Illya said, eager for an alternative strategy. "We can rent a couple of wet suits, swim underwater, and attach the trackers that way."

Now it was Napoleon's turn to struggle to keep a neutral expression. He forced a smile and a chuckle.

"You know what? Why don't we both try it our way? There are two transmitters, after all. One of our plans has to work. In fact, that's a good insurance policy."

" _Da_ ," Illya said. "We shall meet back here later, then, with all the equipment we shall require."

"Sounds good to me," Napoleon said. "How about in twenty minutes?"

"Fine," Illya said, with a nod.

"Great! Good luck," the American said.

"You, as well," the Russian returned.

And the two partners temporarily separated to get what they needed, each hoping that his quiet sigh of relief had gone unheard.

They hadn't had any difficulty trying to get what they needed; Illya, dressed in a wet suit, had headed over to where Napoleon was getting ready to launch his rented boat.

"…Aren't you hot in that?" Napoleon asked him.

"Insanely," Illya replied, through gritted teeth as he bore the weight of the scuba tank on his back. "Give me a tracker so that I may retreat to the water, at least."

"Here you go," Napoleon said, handing one over to him. "Good luck—again."

"And you—again."

Illya retreated into the water; Napoleon shook his head and launched the boat, heading out to the yacht. He could hear chatter and a radio playing music; this was the opportune moment, he realized.

He activated the other tracking device and used the waterproof adhesive to stick it to the side of the lower bow. It was then that he heard a shout from the deck.

"What do you think you're doing!?" one of Moran's cronies fumed.

Napoleon blinked.

"I… I was just admiring the paint job here," he lied. "I didn't mean any-"

Moran had appeared at the railing with a gun in his hand, took one look at Napoleon, and opened fire—clearly, word of who he was had somehow gotten to him, or perhaps he just wasn't taking any chances after Monte Carlo. Regardless, the young U.N.C.L.E. agent had to quickly determine which of the two threats to his life was the most survivable. He chose the ocean.

Bullets sped past him in the water, narrowly missing him; the marksmanship skills that the Moran family had prided themselves on were still affected by the refractive effect of the water. Still, it was only a matter of time until Moran's aim rang true—and he'd get a clear shot the moment Napoleon tried to surface for air.

His limbs flapped about ungainly as he tried to get away from the yacht, and then his lungs protested, prompting him to try to break the surface; it was difficult for him as it was, and he froze as another bullet narrowly missed him. His mind was still calculating his next move when a pair of hands grabbed him by the arm, dragging him downwards.

Out of reflex, Napoleon struggled; he froze again as he saw that it was a man in a wet suit.

 _Illya!?_

Why… why was Illya dragging him down, away from the air he so desperately needed? Surely he wasn't trying to…

 _No! There's no way Broker was right; there's gotta be a reason_ -

Napoleon's thoughts trailed off as Illya shoved the breathing apparatus of the scuba gear into Napoleon's mouth. Napoleon breathed in the welcome air, furious with himself for allowing his faith in his partner to waver for that split-second, and furious with Broker for trying to plant that seed of doubt that allowed his faith to momentarily waver.

The breath that Illya had been holding escaped him in a mouthful of bubbles. Napoleon's eyes widened, and he quickly handed over the breathing apparatus. Illya breathed a few times and handed it back to Napoleon with one hand while indicating that they flee with the other hand.

Napoleon nodded, realizing that they would have to make their getaway underwater, much to his dismay. But Illya still kept a hand on his arm and led the way as they continued to share the breathing apparatus—but they both stopped in their tracks as another bullet narrowly missed them.

Illya's eyes widened now in sudden realization, and he started pointing frantically at Napoleon's Hawaiian shirt. And Napoleon understood—the loud, red shirt was a big, bright target for Moran.

Napoleon practically tore the shirt in half trying to remove it and let it float upwards as he and Illya then fled once more. Sure enough, the bullets were now targeting the shirt—at least until it surfaced.

Napoleon and Illya continued to make their escape, still sharing the breathing apparatus. They stayed underwater until their air supply ran out, and then, finally, surfaced. Moran had abandoned the pursuit, obviously assuming that Napoleon had either drowned or been hit when he hadn't resurfaced. Napoleon took a few minutes to survey around them and catch his breath before he looked to Illya, his expression filled with gratitude.

"I… I owe you one, Illya." His gut still twisted in guilt, however, for momentarily doubting his partner, who had only been trying to save him.

Illya shook his head.

"You would have done the same," he insisted. He looked around now; there appeared to be nothing but ocean around them. "We must have gotten caught up in a current—there is no other reason for us suddenly losing sight of Oahu."

"Yeah, I thought we were moving rather fast…" Napoleon said, biting his lip as he looked around. "The question is, where did we end up?"

"We cannot be _that_ far from Oahu," Illya said. "Unfortunately, there is every chance that Moran is looking for you."

Napoleon winced.

"Yeah. And what's worse, they probably saw me put the tracker; they'll be sure to have it removed."

"Then it is fortunate that I stuck the other tracker to the bottom of the boat."

The American managed a wan smile.

"Looks like you were right about going underwater," he sighed. "I probably should have stuck with that idea, but…"

"Never mind now," Illya said. "We cannot stay here in the water; we need to find land and call for an extraction once our communicators dry out."

"Some seagulls are over that way, and some of them are over _that_ way," Napoleon said, indicating the birds. "And they'll always be near land. I'm guessing the larger group is from where we came—where Moran will be."

"Then we shall go to the smaller group," Illya said. He still hadn't let go of Napoleon's arm; whether or not he had figured out Napoleon's alarm at the water, Napoleon didn't know, but he was grateful that his partner wasn't saying anything about it.

It was a bit longer before they made it to the shore of what appeared to be a small cove. Napoleon took apart his communicator and laid the pieces on a rock, hoping that it wasn't waterlogged beyond repair.

Illya did the same after removing the wetsuit; he had managed to slip the communicator and the sunhat under the suit, and he had continued to wear the short shorts.

"I think you better go into the shade of that palm tree," Napoleon said. "That sunscreen you put on won't last, even if it was waterproof."

" _Da_ ," Illya murmured, and he retreated to the shade of the tree, looking weary from the heat.

Napoleon looked around, feeling helpless that there was nothing he could do for his partner—the partner who had saved his life only a little while ago.

"I'm going to look around," he announced. "You keep resting here."

"I will," Illya said, closing his eyes.

Napoleon headed inland, hoping that wherever they had ended up was close to people. Unfortunately, the pristine quality of the nature around them and the lack of footprints made it clear that they had made it to some uninhabited cove.

"Well, at least we're not that far from Oahu…" Napoleon sighed aloud, to no one in particular. Hopefully, the extraction would be quick, once they were able to get a message out.

Napoleon's walk resulted in him finding some tropical birds relaxing at a freshwater spring; beyond the spring seemed to be a cave. There was nothing in it, but it was much cooler inside than out in the elements. Deciding that would prove to be better shade than the tree that Illya was resting under, Napoleon went back.

"Hey," he said, gently nudging the Russian's shoulder.

"Mmh?" Illya replied, after some time.

Napoleon frowned, growing more concerned.

"Illya, I think you've got a case of heat exhaustion."

"Mmh…" the Russian said again, tiredly.

"OK, that's it," Napoleon said, picking his partner up and balancing him across his shoulders. "You're going to the cave, like it or not."

"Mmh…"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"… _Da_ …."

"OK, that's an improvement."

Napoleon took Illya back to the cave, setting him up on a makeshift mattress of palm fronds. Still not satisfied, Napoleon headed back to the spring, soaking a handkerchief he had been carrying in his pocket and made several trips from the spring to the cave to clean the sweat off of his partner by soaking the handkerchief repeatedly and cleaning his partner off with it.

Illya seemed to have fallen asleep, but that didn't stop Napoleon from talking to him anyway.

"I know you don't think it was much," Napoleon said, as he ran the cloth across Illya's chest. "But I still owe you big time for that underwater rescue."

Illya didn't respond, but Napoleon continued anyway.

"You didn't have to put yourself in harm's way; you could have gotten out of there and saved yourself," he said. "…Illya…" He sighed, remembering that moment—that fleeting moment—he had wondered and worried what Illya had been trying to do when he had been pulling him away. _Never again_ , he vowed. _Never again will I doubt you, even for a moment_. "Illya, I meant what I said in Monte Carlo; I trust you—with my life. Just… know that."

He looked back at his partner, who was still resting peacefully. His skin didn't seem to be as hot, which was a good sign, as far as the heat exhaustion was concerned. Illya appeared to be out of danger.

"Okay, you rest up," Napoleon said, folding up the handkerchief and placing it over Illya's forehead. "I'm going to try seeing if our communicators have dried off."

He got up and paused at the opening of the cave, looked back at his partner once more, and then headed back to the beach.

He spent the next several hours alternating between trying the communicators and checking up on Illya, making sure he had fresh fruits to keep hydrated, as Napoleon wasn't entirely sure of the quality of the spring water. The American was still trying to contact U.N.C.L.E. by the time the sun had gone down and the moon had risen.

"Napoleon?" he heard Illya call.

"Over here!" Napoleon called back.

Illya soon found him, resting on a nearby rock on the beach, the bright moonlight practically illuminating his hair.

"Ah… how are you feeling?" Napoleon asked.

"Much better, thank you," Illya said, looking at Napoleon with sincere eyes.

"Oh, good."

"No, Napoleon. I mean… thank you."

Napoleon smiled.

"Anytime, _Tovarisch_."

"I heard you."

"Hmm?"

"In the cave. What you were saying. I thank you for continuing to trust me even after whatever Broker might have said to you." Illya gave a wan smile as Napoleon gave a start. "It's alright, Napoleon; I would have expected Broker to try to turn you against me. What did he say?"

"…You don't want to know."

" _Da_ , you are probably right."

Any further discussion was sidelined by Napoleon's communicator finally whistling in response to a call. At last, Napoleon got through and requested an extraction, as well as instructing the trackers on Moran's boat to be monitored.

He sighed as he placed the communicator back down.

"Well, we've got another hour to kill before the Honolulu branch extracts us," he said. "I guess we'll just pay attention to wherever Moran is headed next after this."

"I am only sorry that he knows your face now," Illya said.

"Yeah, but he doesn't know that I know he's the Baron; he just thinks I'm after him because of whatever secrets he tried to get from you," Napoleon said. "We're so close, Illya. Two and a half years' worth of work, and we're so close."

"Most of that work was yours," Illya pointed out.

"Yeah, well… now it's ours. And I'd like it if…" Napoleon trailed off, glancing back at his partner, who was looking back at him intently. "…I'd be _honored_ if…" He trailed off again, searching for words.

"If I were to continue this endeavor with you?"

"…Yeah," Napoleon said.

"I would consider it an honor to continue working with you, as well," Illya said, sincerely.

Napoleon grinned, and Illya smiled back, and the two of them continued to chat idly until backup came to get them back to Oahu.

Moran may have eluded them once again, but they would try again—determined to one day stop him, together.


	5. Act V: Nocturne of Shadow

_Notes: this is one of two pieces I wrote for David McCallum's birthday; the other can be found on my tumblr or AO3._

* * *

 **Act V: Nocturne of Shadow**

With renewed purpose, Napoleon and Illya kept careful watch over Moran's movements over the next several weeks. The trackers had allowed them to keep a close watch on the boat, and it was a bit of a surprise when, out of the blue, Moran dropped everything, headed to the nearest airport, and set off for Europe, according to eyewitnesses—and all evidence indicated that he was heading for the Black Forest—specifically to an old, abandoned castle known only as Dunkel Schloss.

"We weren't anywhere near him," Napoleon mused, as they dutifully began to search the area where Moran had been last seen. "Why would he take off like that? And here, to the Black Forest?"

"Perhaps something THRUSH-related here required his attention," Illya mused. "Of course, one wonders if he was trying to-"

Illya suddenly froze in his tracks as something came into view ahead behind the trees. Both he and Napoleon drew their Specials, waiting for whatever it was to make a move.

But nothing happened.

Puzzled, the duo wandered closer, pausing as they realized that it was a large lynx, lying unmoving in place. The cat's eyes were open, staring ahead as though it had been reacting at something.

"Strange place to leave a piece of taxidermy…" Napoleon said.

Illya suddenly paled.

" _Bozhe moy_ …!"

"What!?"

"That is _not_ a piece of taxidermy, Napoleon."

He approached the immobile lynx, placing a hand in front of its mouth first, and then upon the cat's chest. The lynx did not move, but Illya looked back at Napoleon with a worried expression.

"It's alive."

"But how is that…?" Napoleon trailed off as the realization sunk in. "Oh, God… They've perfected the paralytic gas!"

"They are probably storing it in Dunkel Schloss; it's been abandoned for centuries," Illya said, looking up at the old stone structure. "But that is why Moran is here; he is getting ready to oversee the shipment to wherever their demonstration will be!" He exhaled, trying to stay calm. "The very nature of paralytics mean that they are temporary; even if this one lasts longer than the first batch in Brazil, it should wear off, and the lynx should recover. But we still cannot allow Moran to use it on anyone. We must take him into custody here, Napoleon."

The American nodded.

"The castle is going to be crawling with THRUSH guards if Moran is there; we'll have to steal some uniforms if we have any hope of maneuvering in there unnoticed," he said.

" _Da_ ; we can get some from the guards patrolling the outside and take their uniforms. But we mustn't put our eggs in one basket," Illya said. "One of us should try going through the front, and the other through the secret passageway."

"There's another way in?" Napoleon asked.

Illya nodded.

"The last owner of this castle could have put Vlad the Impaler to shame with his cruelties," he said. "The dungeons are full of torture devices that he used to convince the peasants who lived in the surrounding villages to pay heavy taxes to him. They suffered under his cruelty, tormented and starving—and people frequently vanished without a trace, never to be heard from again. But, one day, the peasants united to put an end to his tyranny. He had foreseen this, and had constructed an escape passageway to evade them."

"So, they never caught him?" Napoleon asked.

Illya shook his head.

"Not only did he get away, he took the majority of his wealth with him," Illya said. "The peasants recovered what little that remained, and the castle has been abandoned since. However, I had been researching the area around the castle; I think I might have an idea as to where the secret passageway may be. But in case I am wrong, it is best that you go through the main entrance—but be careful."

"Don't worry; I'm not wearing any loud shirts this time," Napoleon said, with a wan smile. "Okay, we'll grab some uniforms and split up. But keep in touch with me whenever possible."

" _Da_ , of course."

They headed towards the castle; Illya took one last look back at the paralyzed lynx, looking at it in sympathy before following in Napoleon's footsteps.

The two partners parted ways after knocking out two guards and stealing their uniforms. Illya found the passageway after a great deal of searching, and was pleased to find that it was intact, even after all the centuries that had passed.

He quietly murmured into his communicator as he walked down the passageway.

"I've entered the passageway, Napoleon. What about you?"

"A little bit turned around here; each hallway looks the same to me," Napoleon murmured back.

"Well, try to find your bearings, but be careful," Illya cautioned him. "If you're recognized as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, you could-"

Illya stopped in midsentence as he suddenly realized that the passageway was no longer made of plain bricks and mortar; there were human bones cemented into the wall—skulls grinned at him with empty eyes.

"Illya?" Napoleon asked, concerned by his silence. "Illya, what happened? Are you alright?"

"I… I'm fine," Illya said, realizing that these must have been here for centuries. "Never mind me, Napoleon. Remember the mission."

"Right," Napoleon sighed. "Well, if you're sure you're alright-"

"I am sure. This passageway goes on a bit longer than I thought, Napoleon; I shall need more time before I can enter the main part of the castle."

"Alright; I'll keep looking for either Moran or the gas," Napoleon said. "Keep the channel open; we don't want the communicators going off."

"Right…" Illya said. He placed his communicator, still on, in his stolen uniform's chest pocket and gently touched the nearest skull in the wall, murmuring two quiet words under his breath—"I'm sorry."

He continued down the passageway, quietly. Neither he nor Napoleon spoke for a while. Finally, he heard a sharp intake of breath from the American.

"Illya, there's a door that goes down to a keep," he said. "I think that might be the best place to look."

" _Da_. Can you give me a good idea of where you are? We can try to rendezvous."

"Let me see if I find anything, and then I'll try to figure out where the heck I am," Napoleon mused.

"Good idea; I am almost at the end of the…" Illya paused as he felt nothing but solid wall in front of him. He swore in his native tongue.

"What happened?"

"The passageway has been sealed! I cannot enter the castle!"

"…Well, that's inconvenient."

" _You think_?" Illya asked.

Napoleon was suppressing a chuckle as he descended down the stairs and into the keep.

"Hang in there, _Tovarisch_. Just scurry around to the front entrance and…" Now it was his turn to trail off.

"Napoleon? Did you find the gas?"

"No. This… this isn't the keep. It's a dungeon…!"

There was something in the American's tone of voice that told the Russian there was more to it than that.

"…It's not just the dungeon, is it?" Illya realized.

"…Uh-uh. All those nasty torture devices you mentioned-"

BANG

Illya's blood froze as he heard a gunshot over the communicator, followed by a cry from Napoleon. There was a crunching sound a split-second before the communicator went silent.

"Napoleon!? _Napoleon_!?"

There was nothing but silence.

" _Nyet_ …" the Russian breathed, running a hand through his hair. He quickly relayed the situation to U.N.C.L.E. Northeast and then contemplated on what to do until backup arrived. He would have to decide now whether to run all the way outside and go through the front and contend with a bunch of THRUSHies that were surely waiting for him, or attempt to find a way past the blocked exit of the passageway. Running a hand across the wall blocking his way revealed an iron chain. Illya took a flashlight and ran the beam up the length of the chain, pausing as he saw the chain sealed on the ceiling by a gigantic glob of wax that was stuck there. And mounted around the wax were several unlit torch brackets.

Illya exhaled, deciding to gamble on the hope that if he lit the torches and melted the wax, the chain would release and the passageway would open.

His decision made, all he could do now was hope that he wasn't too late to save his partner.

* * *

Napoleon, despite keeping his arms raised in surrender, stared defiantly as Silas Moran pointed his weapon at him. A casual shot from an impressive range had knocked Napoleon's Special out of his hand; his communicator had slipped from his other hand, and one of Moran's men had quickly crushed it under his boot. He was quickly searched and deprived of his other devices, including the tracking device he had intended to use to help Illya find him.

Napoleon was quietly chastising himself for allowing himself to be taken by surprise. He had been walking down the stairs, expecting a storage keep, but instead had stumbled upon a room full of torture devices, including the x-shaped saltires that had been at the THRUSH facility where Illya had been questioned about the launch codes after Monte Carlo. Seeing the saltires again, and being forcefully reminded of how Illya had been taken and tortured, had distracted him long enough for Moran to have gotten the drop on him.

"So… You are Napoleon Solo," Moran said, looking at him with some amount of admiration. "I wasn't certain of who you were when I saw you by my yacht last month. I'd heard you had been seeking the Baron, but I had no idea you were as close to capturing me as you were."

Napoleon glared in silence.

"And it would seem that the Soviet I was questioning for the launch codes is in cahoots with you," Moran continued, scoffing. "Where is he, Solo?"

Napoleon continued to glare.

"Come, come, Solo; there's no use in protecting him—not when he is only using you to get to me."

"I'm not going to fall for that this time," Napoleon vowed, quietly.

"Very well, Mr. Solo, I see you're going to be just as difficult as he was," Moran said. He snapped his fingers, and one of his goons shoved Napoleon into an open trapdoor about six feet down. Napoleon hissed as he landed on the cold stones; looking around, he saw that he had fallen in front of another saltire in a narrow corridor, and that there were skeletons seemingly stuck to both of the short walls on the opposite sides of the corridor.

"Chain him," Moran ordered.

A rope ladder descended from the open trapdoor, and Moran's men climbed down. Napoleon considered fighting them, but Moran had his weapon drawn from the upper dungeon, and so the American didn't resist as he was chained to the saltire as Illya had been.

Moran descended into the narrow room now.

"Move the shipment out; the Russian will have called for backup, and we must be gone before they get here. Don't wait for me; I'll find my own way out."

"As you wish, Lord Moran."

The goons all left.

"I suppose I'll be keeping you company until Illya arrives with backup?" Napoleon asked, dryly.

"Not necessarily. Perhaps we can talk business, and should we arrive at a deal, you would be free to go."

"…You have no proposition that will interest me. I can guarantee it."

"Every man has his price, Mr. Solo."

"What I want isn't something you can get me."

"Hmm, so you're not in this for the money; you're a glory-seeker? That accounts for you going after targets such as Emory Partridge and myself. I would be another impressive feather in your cap."

Napoleon gave a dry chuckle.

"You too? Your man Broker also thought I was in this for the glory. I'm not."

Moran sighed.

"Ah, so you're an idealist."

"That's right."

"Really, Mr. Solo, surely you are wise enough to know that the global peace you desire isn't truly attainable? You know it isn't, and it will never be."

"But why should that stop me from trying? And even if I'll never see global peace, I'm content with preventing immediate war from breaking out."

"Ah, but you see, that is THRUSH's vision, as well!"

"…If I wasn't chained up, I'd laugh at that."

"But it is true, Mr. Solo. First, we get the Russian launch codes. Then, we get the American launch codes. And then, the entire world comes under one rule—with THRUSH at the head. We would like to avoid war to achieve this; it would simplify things for us."

"And how many people would suffer in your twisted view of utopia?" Napoleon quipped. "I know that the 'R. U.' in THRUSH stands for 'Removal of Undesirables.' Just how do you decide who falls into that category!?"

"Well, Mr. Solo, I can tell you that you are rapidly falling into that category yourself," Moran said. "It is just as my grandfather Sebastian stated when he named the organization—sometimes, a desirable will end up becoming an undesirable due to foolish notions. It cannot be helped. Our ancestor who lived in this castle learned that lesson, as well."

"I was beginning to suspect that this was family property after I saw the same saltire here as in your private THRUSH dungeon," Napoleon muttered. "Your ancestor made it to England with his stolen wealth, didn't he?"

"Not stolen, Solo—it was dutifully paid by the peasants. They didn't appreciate the vision that our family has had for centuries."

Napoleon shook his head in disgust.

"You know what? I think we're done here."

"Solo, do you honestly think that the views of the Soviets are any different than that of THRUSH? Even if THRUSH fails, they will seek to achieve the same global rule."

"Can we skip the 'Us Versus Them' lecture? I've heard this chestnut more times than I can count—including from your friend Broker."

"Mr. Broker was wise enough to see that THRUSH seeking to stop the Soviets was beneficial to your country, Mr. Solo. And he should know, knowing Kuryakin personally."

"Yeah, yeah; he told me all about how Illya is secretly a mole and will stab me in the back to hand you over to the Soviets. OK, then-Broker's wise, and I'm a stupid undesirable who still trusts Illya," Napoleon said. " _Now_ we're done here."

"Your trust is ill-placed, Mr. Solo—very ill-placed. But, alas, I do believe we are done here, as you say. And it is time I got going; I have no desire to be apprehended by the Soviets."

"Don't forget to write," Napoleon said, glibly.

"I shall lament your decision to be an undesirable," Moran said. "You would have been an asset to THRUSH. I will have flowers sent to your funeral."

"Oh, thanks."

Moran raised his hand, and Napoleon steeled himself for what he thought was going to be an incoming bullet at close-range. But, instead, an acrid-smelling substance was sprayed into his face. Napoleon coughed, wincing at the stench.

"What the-?" He frowned as he noticed Moran climbing the rope ladder.

"I hold you in such high regard, Mr. Solo, that you shall have the honor of being executed by the current owner of Dunkel Schloss."

He disappeared from view for a moment, and then Napoleon began to hear a clanking sound as chains and gears moved around in the walls of the narrow room where he was being restrained. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed the short wall of skeletons approaching him; he turned his head as best he could and saw that the back wall was also approaching him—and it was the he noticed the numerous spears jutting out of the wall, and that it was the spears upon which the skeletons had been impaled.

Napoleon attempted to yelp, but, suddenly, his throat didn't seem to be working. His head was suddenly feeling very heavy, and his limbs were losing all feeling.

Moran appeared at the trapdoor, holding a metal bar that had been holding the trap in place. He cast the bar aside.

"And because I admire you, I had the basic decency to use our perfected paralytic gas on you, Mr. Solo. It takes ninety seconds to take full effect, and it lasts for three hours—water or no water. Of course, it'll be over for you in another sixty seconds—but I promise that you shall not feel a thing."

Napoleon now hung limply from the saltire; every single voluntary muscle in his body had been numbed, and his eyes, though open, were staring unfocused at the stone floor as his head lolled on his neck. His mind was in a haze, but he wasn't falling unconscious—to his horror, he realized he was going to be fully awake when those spears impaled him. And yet, there was nothing he could do; he couldn't lift so much as a finger.

The sound of a gunshot caught his attention, but he couldn't turn his head; he did, however, see Moran's gun as it clattered to the stone floor right in front of him.

" _You_!?" he heard Moran fume.

"Where is he?" he heard Illya ask. The Russian's voice was as cold as ice.

Napoleon tried to make a sound to alert his partner to his presence, but he couldn't.

"If you're referring to Solo, he's down there—with approximately thirty seconds left to live."

Napoleon heard footsteps—Illya's, no doubt, as he looked down the trapdoor. And then Napoleon heard another set of footsteps running away.

"Stop!" he heard Illya order.

There were two more shots, a curse in Russian, and then, after a few seconds more, silence—the clanking of the gears and chains that were being caused by the moving spear-laden walls had stopped; though he couldn't see them as he couldn't lift his head, Napoleon was willing to bet that they were far too close for comfort.

"Napoleon…!"

Illya's voice sounded as though he was climbing down the rope ladder. There was a pause as Illya stopped in his tracks to see what was happening—and how close Napoleon had come to death. Illya cursed again and now approached him; Napoleon could see his shoes—out of focus, but in his line of vision.

"Napoleon?"

Napoleon's head lifted up as Illya gently raised his head; he couldn't feel the sensation of Illya's hands on his face, but he could see the Russian's blurred form—and could still discern the blue eyes, wide in concern and horror, even if he couldn't focus on them.

He could hear Illya hold a breath as he placed a hand in front of Napoleon's nose and mouth. And as Napoleon exhaled, so did Illya.

Illya now set about unchaining Napoleon from the saltire; Napoleon fell into Illya's arms like a giant, living ragdoll. With some difficulty, Illya maneuvered Napoleon onto his back and, clinging onto one arm with his own, used the other arm to climb up the rope ladder, and then proceed to carry him out of the castle piggyback.

"There's no one left," Illya said, quietly, as he carried Napoleon out. "They all have fled—the Baron, too. I could have captured him. I could have killed him." He swore. "I should have killed him—killed him _and_ saved you."

 _You were too worried about me to think straight_ … Napoleon silently transmitted. _And after Broker said you'd leave me for dead and take Moran back to Russia by yourself… I knew you wouldn't_.

Illya now sat down in a sheltered part of the woods nearby, in case there were any THRUSH stragglers around; he transferred Napoleon so that he was reclining on the ground, with his head and torso supported by Illya's chest and arm. Napoleon was hoping for one of Illya's witty remarks—something about blaming him if he ended up with a hernia or even berating him on getting captured so easily, but the Russian was silent. And Napoleon wasn't sure why, but something about that silence concerned him deeply.

* * *

There wasn't anything Napoleon could do other than sleep—or try to, as it was difficult to do so with his eyes open. But once Illya sensed this, the Russian obligingly covered his eyes, allowing Napoleon to doze for a while. He was still quiet, and though Napoleon eventually was given an eye mask to allow him to sleep once he was in U.N.C.L.E. Berlin's wing of Medical, he could still sense Illya there, sitting in absolute silence.

There was the sound of someone clearing his throat by the door, and Napoleon could sense Illya stand abruptly.

"Mr. Beldon…" he said.

"You'll be pleased to know, Mr. Kuryakin, that the paralyzed lynx you found has fully recovered," Beldon said. "Therefore, there's nothing to suggest that Mr. Solo will not."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I have Mr. Waverly here over Channel D."

"Oh. Good evening, Sir."

"Yes, good evening, Mr. Kuryakin," Napoleon heard Waverly say. "How is Mr. Solo faring?"

"Well, as you heard Mr. Beldon say, there's no reason why he should not recover. I believe he is sleeping now."

"Yes, let him rest. And I would prefer it if the two of you compile the mission report together again. Your initial report seemed to suggest that you were being rather hard on yourself again."

"Sir, I had the Baron right in front of me!" Illya exclaimed. "I could have captured or killed him…!"

"…And then Mr. Solo would have surely perished," Waverly finished.

"I understand that, Sir, but between what happened in Monte Carlo and here, I am wondering if it would be best if Napoleon returned to New York alone, and I returned to my old position here in Berlin."

Napoleon was wide awake now, even though he couldn't see beyond the eye mask. Illya was wanting to end their partnership over this!?

"…I think that is a decision that both you and Mr. Solo have to agree upon," Waverly said. "Don't you think so, Mr. Beldon?"

"Well, I wouldn't object to having Mr. Kuryakin here at Northeast again," Beldon replied, honestly.

"Sir, this transfer to New York was done so that I might be an asset in Napoleon's mission to stop the Baron. While I may have been an asset at first, it is clear to me that I have now become a liability."

"I think that's for Mr. Solo to decide; this is his case," Waverly said. "You two shall have to work it out between yourselves."

"With all due respect, Mr. Waverly," Beldon said. "I think it is highly improper for Mr. Kuryakin to remain in New York against his will, regardless of what Mr. Solo decides."

"No one shall force Mr. Kuryakin to go or stay anywhere," Waverly assured him. "I merely request that Mr. Solo be involved in these discussions. If, after involving him, you wish to remain in Berlin, then none of us will try to move you."

Napoleon wasn't so sure of _that_.

"Mr. Beldon and I have other things to discuss, so do carry on, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly continued.

Illya mumbled something in the affirmative and returned to Napoleon's side as Beldon left to continue his conversation in private.

It was another hour before Napoleon finally regained the use of his limbs; the first thing he did was remove the eye mask and wince at the sudden light.

"Napoleon…!" Illya exclaimed. "How do you feel?"

But Napoleon responded by giving the Russian a long stare.

"I'm not going back to New York without you," he said, his throat croaky from disuse.

Illya's eyes widened.

"You… you heard."

Napoleon took a drink of water, taking a moment to let his throat recover.

"Yes, and I refuse to accept this," he said, at last.

"Pulling rank on me won't work; I already received word from Mr. Waverly that I will not be forced to return to New York. And, indeed, I fail to see why you want me to return when your reasons are purely sentimental."

"They aren't purely sentimental. And even if they were, what's wrong with that?"

"It was sentiment that cost us a successful capture of the Baron—not once, but twice! And it is far worse now, as he has escaped with the perfected paralytic gas!"

"So what are you saying? You want a new partner—one you wouldn't mind ditching to complete the mission?" Napoleon asked. "Do you really expect me to believe that's the kind of person you are—that you'd let a colleague or even an innocent bystander suffer for the sake of the mission?"

"Of course not; I'd return to working alone."

"Illya… you were the one who told me in Rio how important it was that we stop the Baron to prevent World War III. Are you seriously going to drop everything and walk away from this? I don't think you will. You wouldn't have joined an organization that believes in fostering bonds across borders for the sake of world peace if you weren't committed to the cause." _Unless you really were a mole—and I know you're not_ , Napoleon silently added. "And you know as well as I do that we've made greater strides in this case together than I did while on my own."

Illya glanced back at him with a pained expression.

"Illya, we are _so close_ ," Napoleon continued. "All we need is one more chance."

"All we've _got_ is one more chance," Illya said, flatly. "He's going to use that paralytic gas to make his demonstration—and his threat. If we do not stop that from happening… It could be over for all of us."

"I know. And that's why I need you. I need to know that I've got backup I can count on."

Illya exhaled again, but nodded in agreement.

" _Da_. One more chance," he said.

Napoleon managed a smile.

"Thanks, _Tovarisch_. And thanks for… saving me from getting impaled."

"Of course. Just so you know… I don't regret that I did succeed in saving you."

"I'd certainly hope not!"

Illya finally cracked a smile, and Napoleon had to hope that things would be alright. He had convinced Illya to stay in New York a while longer; there was still the question of what Illya would do after their one last chance against the Baron, but Napoleon would cross that bridge when he got to it. The important thing was that Illya was fond enough of him to stay for now—and that any and all of Broker's claims of Illya's latent treachery were completely unfounded.

He could live with that.


	6. Act VI: Requiem of Spirit

_Notes: this is one of two pieces I wrote in honor of Robert Vaughn's birthday; the other will be posted a little later. This piece is also the end of my Baron of THRUSH arc, and I thank everyone who followed it!  
_

* * *

 **Act VI: Requiem of Spirit**

Illya paused as he entered the apartment and saw Napoleon talking on the phone. Illya knew that their intel had reported that Moran was heading to Niagara Falls; was there a change in their information?

Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear that the conversation Napoleon was having was casual, and Illya backed away towards the hall, not wanting to intrude on his partner's conversation. But Napoleon waved him back in; clearly, it wasn't a conversation that his partner minded being overheard.

"Yeah, Ma, I _know_ I haven't been home in a while," Napoleon was saying.

Illya glanced back at Napoleon in spite of himself; having had no family of his own, he hadn't given much thought to Napoleon's family, even though his partner had mentioned having parents and an aunt. And now, on the eve of a mission, Napoleon's mother was chiding him for not having visited? If it wasn't for the fact that their mission was a dire one, the situation would have been amusing.

"OK, Ma, look, I've got some things to do, but if everything works out, I'll swing by for a visit," Napoleon promised. "Tell Dad I said hi. Huh? Will I be bringing someone with me? Ah… Can I get back to you on that, Ma?" Napoleon's face took on an embarrassed grin as Mrs. Solo said something that Illya couldn't hear, but he could quickly surmise as Napoleon glanced at him with a shrug and added, "Yes, Ma, I'll let Illya know that he's welcome to visit us at any time."

Illya turned away, blushing slightly. He knew from Napoleon that Mr. and Mrs. Solo had been extending him an invitation for months now, but he had not wanted to impose, and so had politely declined each time.

"Yes, Ma, I'll try my very best to convince him this time," Napoleon sighed. "Okay, I'll talk to you later. …Love you, too, Ma. Bye."

"She has been trying very hard to get me to accept her invitation," Illya commented, as Napoleon put the phone down.

"Yeah, she has been," Napoleon said. "I've told her and Dad a lot about you; they would like to meet you, you know."

"I could not impose on your parents, Napoleon," Illya said, shaking his head. "And would it not be premature to introduce me to them when we still do not know if I will be called back to Berlin after this mission—assuming we succeed?"

Napoleon sighed again.

"That's why you've been turning down the invite each time?"

"Well… yes. And besides, we have other matters to concern ourselves with now than worrying about invitations."

"Well, you have a point there," Napoleon admitted. "I'm all packed, and Mr. Waverly has a private charter plane for us this time—he doesn't want THRUSH knowing that we know where the Baron is."

"I have everything I need, as well," Illya nodded, holding up his own bag. "Including the climbing equipment." He shook his head. "Are you certain you wish to climb the Horseshoe Falls, Napoleon? It is fifty meters straight up!"

Napoleon gave a nod.

"The Baron won't be expecting one of us to climb _up_ the Falls," he grinned. "Well, the cliffs right beside it, I should say. Look, we know that the only reason the Baron is going to the Falls is because he wants to use the vacationing tourists as his demonstration. I'll be climbing up the cliff while you stall him, and I'll tranquilize him the moment I get the chance; all I need you to do is secure one end of the climbing equipment to the railing at the top of the cliff."

"I will do my best," Illya said, with a nod. "Mercifully, we know he will not kill me on sight, as he is convinced he can get knowledge of the Russian launch codes from me. I should be able to give you the time you need."

The grin faded from Napoleon's face.

"…I didn't think about that," he said, honestly. The image returned to his mind from back in May—of Illya beaten and bleeding while dangling from a saltire. "No; it's too risky for you to be the bait-"

"Napoleon," Illya said, in a warning tone. "We agreed that we would not let sentiment get in the way of our judgment in this mission. We have no room for error; I thought I had made that very clear!"

"We agreed that we have no room for error, yeah," Napoleon said. "Sentiment was never a part of the discussion. I'm making a judgment call based on past experiences. Moran didn't stop to chat with you; he dragged you off and tortured you for information. But he _did_ try to stop and chat with me. I can stall him with minimal risk; he might even try to persuade me to join him again."

"And can you honestly tell me that sentiment doesn't play even the slightest part in your decision?" Illya asked. Napoleon didn't answer; he just glanced back at Illya awkwardly, and Illya shook his head. "Napoleon, as agents, our lives are expendable, especially in cases like this, with so much at stake. If I am to be tortured or even killed trying to prevent a global war, then so be it."

"Even if we are expendable, it doesn't mean that we don't _try_ to have us both come back alive," Napoleon countered.

Illya exhaled.

"Perhaps, Napoleon, if I am called back to Berlin after this, it is for the best," he said, quietly. "Perhaps I am not the kind of partner you can depend upon after all."

"What? No…! Illya, I trust you with my life!"

"Do you really think you should?"

"Yes, I do," Napoleon said, without hesitation. "Illya, I thought we had a good thing going here."

"So did I."

"Then why are you suddenly doubting things now? Is it really because of losing the Baron last time? I don't think it is—at least not entirely. What else is bothering you?"

Illya glanced back at him now; he looked as though he was about to say something, but then shook his head.

"This is not the time," he declared. "We must get to Canada right away."

Napoleon sighed, but followed Illya out the door, worried that even if this mission was successful, he might end up losing a valuable partner regardless.

* * *

The both of them were quiet on the way to Niagara; it was quite unlike their other lively conversations in the past several months since their first meeting. It was becoming clearer to Napoleon now that the end of this mission would be bringing about the end of their partnership. He had been beginning to think that he could have convinced Illya to stay; but it was clear now that for whatever reasons, Illya just didn't think it would work. And Napoleon knew that he couldn't force him to stay.

He sighed and forced himself to pay attention to the situation at hand once they arrived.

"Alright," he said, once they had landed and arrived near the Canadian side of the falls. "We don't know exactly how the Baron is going to strike—only that he will, and it has to be from this upper observation walkway by the falls, as that is where there'll be the greatest concentration of tourists."

"Is it not possible to evacuate the area?" Illya asked.

"He would regroup—strike at another time, or at another target," Napoleon said, shaking his head. "He's eager to make his move as soon as possible; that desperation is our once chance of his guard being lowered."

Illya sighed, looking at all the carefree tourists milling about them already.

"It's a very dangerous game, Napoleon."

"Believe me, if I could get them out of here without alerting him to the fact that we know he's here, I would," Napoleon replied. "Okay, you need to get down there are start climbing up. It'll be dark soon, and they'll be lighting up the Falls for the light show. That's when he's most likely to strike—while everyone is distracted by the lights."

"I see," Illya said. He hesitated. "You are sure that you want to confront him and have me climb from below?"

"Yes, and that's my final decision on the matter. I'll take the high road and you take the low road. I'll attach the end of the rope to the railing; you'll be ready to climb it as soon as you're ready."

Illya shook his head.

"Look, if you have a better idea-" Napoleon began.

"I don't," Illya said. "I am only hoping that you will keep the goal of the mission in sight."

"I _know_ the stakes, Illya," Napoleon said, glancing back at the Russian. "I just wish you'd trust me as much as I trust you."

Illya blinked in surprise, and he looked as though he was about to say something, but thought better of it. He shook his head and headed down the lower walkway towards the bottom of the falls.

Napoleon sighed, regretting being slightly sharp towards Illya. Perhaps it wasn't the Russian's problem after all; maybe it _was_ Napoleon's problem. Why else had he never been able to hold onto a partner all these months? That Illya had lasted this long was a miracle.

"…Perhaps Solo _is_ better off solo," he muttered. But, at the same time, how could he say goodbye to Illya and pretend as though the last several months had meant nothing?

He pushed the thought aside, found the perfect place in the railing to attach the rope, and then did so, unobtrusively, securing it tightly and then strapping it down with leather straps for good measure.

It was as he was waiting—watching for the rope going taught as Illya began to climb it—that Napoleon noticed something small near the upper bar of the railing. It looked like a small piece of tubing running up the perpendicular post that he had tied the rope to; the open end of the tube was resting just beneath the upper bar.

Napoleon looked beside him at the perpendicular posts holding up the upper bar; all of them had the same small pieces of tubing ending just beneath the bar. A quick look up and down the railings showed that others, also, had that same piece of tubing.

Napoleon paled, knowing that they could only meant for one thing. He grabbed his communicator and called for backup; Moran had progressed further than he had thought.

There was no time to waste, he decided, as he climbed over the railing and began to follow the tubing to the edge of the cliff overlooking the Falls. Small, pressurized canisters of gas were dangling from the ends of the tubes. Beyond them, he could see Illya climbing slowly up the rope, unware of the existence of the paralytic gas canisters; there would be no chance to call him on the communicator while he was climbing. Napoleon would have to find a way to stop them on his own before Moran activated them. But he was soon faced with a daunting challenge—finding a way to stop them all.

 _There are too many of them_ , Napoleon silently realized. _Even if I tried, I couldn't take them all down. …And Moran can't activate them all at once unless he has some way of doing it remotely_ …

He heard a scramble of dirt behind him and he turned around, freezing as he saw Moran standing there, a gun in one hand and a key in the other.

"Throw your weapon over the cliff, Solo," Moran ordered. "Or else, I will shoot the Russian."

"You wouldn't," Napoleon said. "You need him for his knowledge of the launch codes; you're that desperate."

"Not anymore," Moran said. "In a matter of minutes, the Soviets will soon see what I have in store for them if they do not hand over the launch codes. That makes your partner completely worthless."

He casually aimed over the cliff and fired; Illya let out a cry as the bullet grazed his left arm.

"NO!" Napoleon yelled, looking over the edge. Illya was holding onto the rope for dear life with his good hand, looking up at him, though he was still too far away for Napoleon to see the expression on his face.

"Toss your weapon off of the cliff," Moran said again. "Or my next bullet goes through his heart. Three… two…"

Napoleon threw his Special off of the cliff and raised his hands, scowling at Moran as he chuckled.

"So, you, see, Solo? Every man _does_ have his price." He kept the gun trained on Illya as he backed away slightly, and pushed aside a fake rock by the edge of the cliff that had hidden some sort of electronic device beneath it. "I have no doubt that you have already summoned for help; I must make my move now."

Napoleon saw him kneel beside the device, holding the key that was in his hand; clearly, it was the key that activated the gas canisters. Napoleon didn't stop to wonder how it worked; he only knew that he had a limited window of opportunity—and he got it as Moran looked away for a second, just to search for the spot on the device to insert the key.

He dove forward and tackled Moran to the ground, right on the edge of the cliff, trying to grab the gun and the key from his hands; Moran was already fighting back, kneeing Napoleon in the stomach. Napoleon cringed, but kept on fighting.

Was that Illya's voice yelling something? He couldn't tell from the roar of the waterfall; and soon, it didn't matter. Napoleon now bit Moran's arm, and by reflex, the THRUSH leader dropped the key from his hand; it bounced off the cliff and disappeared into the falling torrent, but Moran lunged for it, and went too far over the edge—and Napoleon, now going for the gun, hadn't let go of him in time as gravity took hold of them, pulling them down off the cliff, soaking them in the falling water as they fell with it. An icy cold hand of fear gripped Napoleon as he fell, and he shut his eyes, bracing for impact.

And for Illya Kuryakin, still dangling from the climbing rope with one hand, the whole thing played out in one horrific moment after another as time seemed to stand still—Napoleon throwing his Special away… Napoleon grappling with Moran… The both of them, falling with the water…

" _Nyet_! _NYET_!" Illya had yelled, but his voice had gotten lost in the roar of the water as he saw his partner and the Baron plunge into the water at the bottom of the falls.

He was attempting to ungainly climb down the rope with his wounded arm when, as he glanced back down, he saw Napoleon break the surface of the water for a moment, a wide-eyed look of shock on his face before he went back under.

"Napoleon!?" Illya called, knowing that his voice wouldn't have been heard.

Alive… He was _alive_! He had survived falling from the Horseshoe Falls unprotected—not impossible, but Illya hadn't dared to hope…!

Illya now scrambled down the rope until he was close enough to remove the belaying clip and allow himself to fall the rest of the way into the frigid water. As he was underwater, he saw Moran, unmoving and sinking, and then Napoleon, wide-eyed and flailing in a panic. He swam over to Napoleon, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him to the surface.

Napoleon gasped for breath as they broke the surface again; he was shaking violently, and Illya now swam to the bank, pulling his partner up with him.

"Napoleon!" Illya exclaimed. "Napoleon, you…"

He trailed off as Napoleon didn't seem to hear him; his partner was staring blankly ahead, hyperventilating, and still shivering. Illya glanced at him, then to the Falls, the cold water at the bottom, and then back to Napoleon.

"…Oh, Napoleon…" he said, sympathetically.

He held his shaking partner close, trying to keep him warm. Napoleon didn't react at all; it was as though he wasn't aware of Illya's presence. Illya softly tried to talk to him as U.N.C.L.E. boats and helicopters approached.

* * *

It was a long, difficult wait for Illya as U.N.C.L.E., deciding that Napoleon needed medical aid as soon as possible, opted that he be sent to the nearest hospital rather than flown back to HQ and Medical.

As other U.N.C.L.E. agents cleaned up Moran's mess—including recovering his body from the bottom of the falls—Illya received treatment for his arm, and then waited to hear about Napoleon.

At last, the doctor approached Illya, whose arm was in a sling.

"How is he?" the Russian asked.

"Insanely lucky," the doctor said. "Well, physically, at least; his leg is a bit twisted and he has some cuts and bruising, but he has no major internal injuries and should recover—again, physically."

Illya did not looked relieved.

"Your insistence upon repeating 'physical' suggests that there is something wrong with him in some other aspect."

"Mr. Solo appears to be in a stupor; I had our psychiatrist take a look at him," the doctor admitted. "He underwent a highly traumatic experience; his current state has been brought about by an acute stress reaction. Psychological shock."

Illya's heart sank; he had already jumped to that conclusion after Napoleon had failed to even acknowledge his presence after Illya had pulled him from the water. Now, only one question remained…

"How long will it last?" he asked.

"The psychiatrist says there's no way of knowing for certain," the doctor said. "It can be anywhere from a few hours to…"

"You needn't go on," Illya said. "Please… I would like to see him."

"Room 139," the doctor said, pointing it out.

Illya nodded and thanked him, and then knocked on the door of the room.

"Napoleon?" he asked.

There was no answer; he knew not to expect one, so he opened the door carefully, pausing as he saw Napoleon sitting up in the bed in pajamas, staring blankly ahead. A transistor radio that one of the nurses had left was playing some holiday music, but Napoleon didn't seem to be listening to it. Though Illya crossed his line of sight, he didn't react, and he didn't say anything as Illya sat beside him and gently touched his hand.

"Napoleon, it's me—Illya. Your partner." Illya swallowed the growing lump in his throat and continued. "I do not think you realize what you have done today, Napoleon. The Baron is dead—his plan to demonstrate the paralytic gas to intimidate my people was stopped, because of you. You did what you set out to do, Napoleon—protected the world from the Baron, sent THRUSH scurrying without their leader. For nearly three years, you worked to stop him, and you succeeded." Illya gently placed a hand on Napoleon's cheek. "But at what cost? Had you left me behind in Monte Carlo, you could have achieved this without ending up like this in the process." His heart twisted as Napoleon shut his eyes tightly; was he recalling something from his trauma? "Oh, Napoleon, forgive me—please, forgive me…! I doubted you today—doubted that you would to what it took to stop the Baron, but not only did you do what had to be done, you did so in a way that saved the innocent tourists _and_ me…! Your concern was not your weakness; it was your weapon…"

Napoleon still kept his eyes closed, trembling again slightly.

"You did what I was afraid I could not do," Illya admitted. "You asked me why I had been wanting to return to Berlin since what happened at Dunkel Schloss. It was not merely because I was afraid that that sentiment was getting in the way of our mission. This past year has been an eye-opening experience, Napoleon. I was never partnered with someone for this long. And to know you, Napoleon, is to love you. I was afraid of it ending in some horrible way, so I wanted to end it on my terms. But I cannot bring myself to go back now; you… You have grown on me too much. Please, Napoleon… Return to your old self. I will do anything you ask of me—stay here in New York as your partner, visit your family… Just… return to the way you were."

Illya then sat back in the chair and sighed. He would still stay in New York, he determined. Napoleon would need looking after, and Illya owed him that much, at least—Napoleon had treated him with an immediate, unexpected kindness, had looked after him, trusted him, and had been willing to take a fall from the cliff to save his life… Napoleon would not have done that had his heart not been filled with the same love and concern that Illya had felt for him.

"You must have felt the same way," Illya said.

"'Course I do," he heard Napoleon murmur.

Illya froze and, slowly, dared to look back at Napoleon. His eyes were open again, but now they were in focus, searching the room with growing questions in his face.

"Napoleon?" Illya asked.

"Uh-huh?" Napoleon asked, still trying to take in the room. Once he was satisfied, he looked back into Illya's eyes. "….I fell off a _cliff_ and down the _waterfall_?"

"You… you remember?"

"…I think it's going to be a long, long time before I forget… something like that…!" Napoleon exclaimed.

His vital signs were rapidly increasing, and Illya now gently placed his good hand on Napoleon's shoulder to calm him.

"You are safe now," Illya promised. "The Baron-"

"—Is dead," Napoleon finished. "I know; you just said so."

Illya hesitated for a moment.

"…Exactly what else did you hear me say?"

Before Napoleon could answer, Illya's communicator started whistling; the Russian answered.

"Kuryakin here," he said.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" Mr. Waverly asked. "I just received the report from the other field agents and the doctor."

"The news you have received is slightly out of date, Sir," Illya said. "I am pleased to report that Mr. Solo's condition has improved considerably."

"Excellent, excellent. And I presume that everything regarding the Baron has not changed?"

"No, Sir," Illya said. "He is quite dead, and the other agents have dismantled his gas contraptions."

"Then it would appear that congratulations are in order. That goes for you, too, Mr. Solo—can you hear me?"

"Ah, yes, Sir."

"Then you'll both be pleased to know that you're due for a significant promotion on the basis of this meritorious success—presuming, of course, that Mr. Kuryakin decides to stay. I'll let the two of you discuss that along with your mission report; in the meantime, I suggest you both focus on your recovery."

"We will, Sir," Illya said. He closed the channel and glanced back at Napoleon, who still seemed to be shaking; mercifully, his eyes were focusing on Illya. "Napoleon?"

"I… I'm just… Trying to grasp it," Napoleon admitted. "The Baron is dead, I fell off a cliff, and now we're getting promoted?"

"You deserve the promotion more than I," Illya said.

"…Then you're really going back to Berlin?" Napoleon asked.

Illya grasped Napoleon's hand again.

"If you would prefer that I stay here, then I will," Illya said. "A moment ago, I promised you that I would do anything you wished if it would mean your recovery. I do not believe in miracles; I have no explanation for what just happened. But I am a man of my word and will honor it."

"I wouldn't want to force you to do anything you didn't want to do," Napoleon said. "But I would want you to stay—and visit my family." He managed a smile. "To know you is to love you, too."

Illya blinked, but then smiled.

"Then I will stay," he promised. "I think I will be quite happy here with you."

Napoleon now drew him in a slightly shaky hug, taking care not to hurt Illya's wounded arm.

"I know it," he said.

Neither of them knew what the future held; this quest was now over, but new ones would soon be ahead. And they would be facing them together as partners—and neither of them could ask for anything more.


End file.
